


Wings of Stone I

by KeshaRocks



Series: Wings of Stone [1]
Category: bts, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angels, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Demons, Elves, Epic Battles, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Fantasy, Gen, Kings & Queens, Magic, Multi, Other, Princes & Princesses, Self-Discovery, Self-Reflection, Shapeshifting, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeshaRocks/pseuds/KeshaRocks
Summary: In a world of magic and myths, seven men will find their fates intertwined.A rebel prince seeking freedom and friendship gains the help of two huntsmen. He promises them a spot as the new royal assassins if they can solve a mystery of murders around the kingdom. His Captain of the Guard will provoke them, and an elf from a foreign land will befriend them.The more they try to solve the mystery, the more they're thrown deeper into a craft of ancient magic, and opening an old repertoire of history - when angels were their overlords.Could war be on the horizon?Friendships will form, but allegiance will be tested, and they will seek help from the most unlikely people.This could very much cost them their blood, their sweat, their tears, and possibly their lives.
Series: Wings of Stone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678438
Kudos: 1
Collections: BTS, BTS Fanfictions, bts fantasy





	1. Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

_Enough_. The word screams through him, so loudly he begins to shake.

The two guards at the end of the tunnel are dead before they even knew what was happening.

Blood soaks his clothes and his bare arms, and he wipes it from his face as he storms down to the chamber.

He could have taken the swords from the fallen guards, but it had to be the ax. He wanted them to know what this hellhole felt like.

He reaches the entrance to their section of the mines. The first two overseers die when he heaves the ax at their necks, slashing back and forth between them. Their slaves scream, backing against the walls as he rages past them. His broken chain clinking against his shackles.

When he reaches the two overseers, he lets them see him, let them try to draw their blades.

He knew it wasn’t the weapon in his hands that made them stupid with panic, but rather his eyes – eyes that told them they had been tricked these past few months, that cutting his hair and whipping him hadn’t been enough, that he has been baiting them into forgetting that a creature bearing a human skin is in their midst.

But he has not forgotten a second of pain, nor what he had seen them do to the others – to that young woman who had begged to gods who did not save her.

For six long months he had kept to himself. He’s survived the longest from what others have told him. Even with the scarce meals they get here in the mines, his arms and legs are thick with muscle.

The men died too quickly, but he had one more task to complete before he would meet his end. He prowls back up the main tunnel that leads out of the mines. Guards foolishly come rushing out of tunnel mouths to meet him.

He surges upwards, hacking and swinging. Two more guards go down, and he takes up their swords, leaving the ax behind. The slaves don’t cheer as their oppressors fall; they just watch in silence, understanding.

Though he misses the fresh air and open spaces, he does not miss, however, the problems and politics and power struggles that had buzzed around his head whenever he was free to walk the streets.

And yet . . . something keeps him going. He still holds on; he keeps drawing breath even though his life has no meaning anymore. He’ll never be able to bury his dead, nor endure the mourning months until they are over and return to life.

This is not a fight for escape.

_Enough_.

The light of the surface makes him blink, but he is ready. His eyes having to adjust to the sun would be his greatest weakness. That is why he had waited until the softer light of the afternoon. Twilight would have been better, but that time of day is to heavily guarded, and there are too many slaves about that could be caught in the crossfire.

This last hour of full daylight, when the warm sun lulls many to sleep is when the sentries go lax on watch before the evening inspection.

The three sentries at the entrance to the mines didn’t know what was happening below.

Everyone is always screaming here. Everyone sounded the same when they die. And the three sentries scream just like the others.

And then he is running, sprinting for the death that beckons to him, making for the towering stone wall at the other end of the compound.

Arrows whiz pass, and he zigzags. They wouldn’t kill him, by order of the king. An arrow through the shoulder or leg, maybe. But he will make them reconsider their orders once the carnage is too massive to ignore.

Other sentries come rushing from everywhere, and his blades are a song of steel fury as he cuts through them.

He took a gash in the leg – deep, but not deep enough to cut the tendon. They still wanted him able to work. But he won’t work – not again, not for them. When the body count is high enough, they’ll have no choice but to put that arrow through his throat.

But then he nears the gate, and the arrows stop.

He starts laughing when he finds himself surrounded by forty guards, and laughs even more when they call for irons.

He is laughing when he lashes out one last time – one final attempt to touch the wall. Four more go down in his wake.

He is still laughing when the world goes black and his fingers hit the rocky ground – barely an inch from the wall.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

The sun is over the kingdom of Busan. It’s at the peak of summer so the heat is becoming an annoyance as the brown-tiled roofs sizzle. 

Standing in front of the mahogany mirror, the Crown Prince Park Jimin frowns. He sighs heavily as his personal servant strolls in, a flowing navy black cape in hand, to hang from the decorative clasps at his shoulders.

“Oh don’t you look so handsome!” she chirps as she attaches the cape with ease. She dusts off his shoulders, fiddles with the chain that connects the clasps and continues to brush and dust and fidget with his pants and black leather boots.

His silver hair is combed and swoops nicely, his eyes lined in kohl. At a passing glance, one would think his eyes are just as grey depending on what shirt he wears. Even he believes his eyes shift their color all on their own. His jacket is a bluish grey, lined in periwinkle embroidery across his chest.

Jimin spares his maid a thankful nod, but immediately walks over towards his balcony once she’s done fiddling. He leans out as far as he dares to catch a breath of wind on his face. Beyond the city, the foothills ripple towards the storm clouds on the horizon.

Rain would be such a relief. Two weeks were fine with a steady wind, but then the humidity rose and now the air feels as thick as soup, the smell of the city reaching even the highest spires of the castle. Still despite the baking filth, much of his father’s court still stayed. Meaning he still has to endure such boring meetings and babbling of the men.

This heat makes the endless string and state dinners unbearable, even with servants fanning them with palm fronds imported from Gyeonggi-do. At this point, it would take some serious magic to relieve them of this heat.

Stepping back, Jimin hauls his balcony doors closed, stirring the gossamer curtains. Some of the servants who were folding his discarded clothes flinch, and as he retrieves his bejeweled dagger from the divan at the end of his bed, his chamber doors thrust open.

Scaring the servants yet again, in walks his best friend and Captain of the Royal Guard.

Bearing the armor of the Busan, Min Yoongi’s cape ripples in red as he storms over to Jimin. The prince only smirks at the anger and annoyance etched on his friend’s sculpted features.

With hair of ebony black and midnight eyes to match, Yoongi has been his best friend for years and his personal guard even longer. Even as children, he protected Jimin from bullies in the park.

“You’re late.” He snaps. His sword clinking against his belt of daggers, ready for any attack as always. He bears a quick bow.

Jimin nods in return, only shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as he attaches the dagger around his waist. Looking back to Yoongi, he has his arms crossed, which only makes Jimin smile wider. If it weren’t for the servants being here, Yoongi would’ve grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him out the doors.

“Sometimes I think you live to piss me off.” Yoongi says, approaching closer.

Jimin chuckles. “You can’t rush perfection.”

“I’m not rushing perfection, I’m rushing _you_.”

Jimin holds up his hands, though still with an impish grin. “Alright, alright. I’m ready.”

Yoongi steps aside, gesturing with his arm for the prince to go first. Jimin thanks his servants for their work as they leave, Yoongi following and shutting the door behind them. Now in the hallway, gleaming with sunlight from the tall windows, their curtains billow from the breeze invading through their crevice.

Today the castle shines as every window and balcony door is thrown open to allow some form of chill to bless the scalding heat. While Jimin is already wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Yoongi doesn’t seem at all bothered. Together their capes ripple behind them, their steps muffled by the plush red carpet.

Yoongi walks a couple steps ahead, leading Jimin to the council room. “I don’t understand why I even have to go.” The prince grumbles.

“Because you’re the prince. The heir to the throne of Busan.”

Jimin widens his gait to level with Yoongi. “Oh yes,” he chuckles grimly. “I’m the prince. I’ve got duties, responsibilities, expectations, but when I decide to give my opinion or suggestion, it doesn’t even matter. I’m always overruled or even humiliated by the other members of the court.”

The topics of the discussion always makes his temper fray.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, you’re not missing this meeting.” Jimin’s shoulders shrug and he groans like a child. “If you refuse to participate, it will make a statement” A flash of midnight eyes. “And I don’t think it’s the kind of statement you want to make right now.”

Yoongi knew — has always known — about Jimin’s tumultuous relationship with his father. Jimin has never been outright rebellious, perhaps because Yoongi is usually there to subtly interfere, to keep Jimin from saying or doing something he’d later regret. But each year, each month, each gods-damned _day_ , it’s getting harder and harder to submit.

“I’m just as much a slave to the crown as the rest of the continent.” Jimin mumbles, and immediately is met with a hard flick against his temple. Rubbing and wining, he finds Yoongi with a serious expression.

“Don’t use such talk, especially out here. Keep that inside your private chambers.”

“But it’s true.”

Yoongi only shakes his head, but surprises Jimin when he sets his arm on the prince’s shoulder. “At least we can suffer together. I have to read half of the reports, and already I’ve bored myself to death.”

“Nothing interesting?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Nothing that’s come in as of yet. Just drunken brawls and petty thievery.”

“I would say I wish for something to happen, but that could potentially turn dangerous.”

“I wish the same. Sometimes just strolling around this castle is maddening. I wish I could see just a small fight.”

Jimin laughs. “Then forgive me my hyung, if I am grateful you will never be awarded that chance.”

They reach the double oak doors, flanked by four more guards; with important council members and the king and his heir present, every precaution is taken. Just as Yoongi had trained them. They bow as Jimin approaches and two of them haul open the doors.

Everyone stared as they entered.

With Yoongi at his side, Jimin takes his place to the left of his father at the glass table.

“Welcome, my son.” His father acknowledges with a dip of his chin. Jimin bows low and takes his seat without a word. “Now that we are all present, let us begin this meeting.

His father with golden crown gleaming and a long red cape draping from his chair, packs a stack of papers together, Jimin’s only indication of how long this meeting will drag on. The papers weren’t that thick, and Yoongi said that he’ll have to read it all, so Jimin chuckles to himself as he takes makes himself a glass of water.

The discussion starts with activity around town, just as Yoongi had predicted. Jimin tuning almost everything out. One topic at least peeked his interest – a report on a prisoner trying to escape the slave mine camps – but simply written off as another one gone insane.

Jimin’s lip curled slightly. To simply write someone off as _another one_ ; these prisoners had families. They were real people. This report had come from the prison camp located by the border between their land and that of the Angels.

They say Angels because it’s the only term that fits the flying humans, but they are far from the heavenly beings often portrayed in books and tales and songs.

They were dark creatures. Their overlords at one point.

Almost everyone knew the story of the once unnaturally beautiful and holy beings that could fly across the fields and the sky – the original inhabitants and settlers of the continent, and the oldest beings in history.

The Angels ruled over humankind for centuries prior; saw themselves as superiors seeing how the gods granted them the gift of flight and immortality. Each kingdom of the continent was guarded by the most trusted and powerful Archangels. They were cruel and unforgiving, and treated their humans poorly beyond words.

A rebellion soon rose up into war, and the humans gathered and fought against their overlords, spilling so much blood that it tainted the grass for a century. They united with other races such as the elves, and the legendary Dragon Riders to overthrow the Angels. His great-great grandfather was the man in charge of such battles.

After the humans won their freedom, they elected him as the king of their newly claimed land, and then, his great-great grandfather forbade the angels from ever setting foot on human territory.

They drove them out – hunted them down and executed those who weren’t fast enough to flee. They removed any trace of them so thoroughly that even those who had witnessed the war believed they were all extinct. Jimin himself being one of them. Then with the help of the elves, a magical border was put up around their lands, an ongoing alphabet of wards and incantations to make sure the angels could never come back. Many angels who didn’t burn wound up as prisoners in the slave camps – and didn’t survive long there.

And then, hunting angels became a sport, collecting their wings as a prize. Their assailants ripping off their wings and selling them on the black markets for prices, or to give to nobles who would hang them in their chambers to bask. Jimin can’t count on his fingers and toes how many of those beautiful wings he had seen in the rooms of those sitting at this very table.

His father alone had well over a hundred wings secured in his armory, much belonging to his great, and great-great grandfathers. Their feathers were so perfectly smooth, gleaming in even the most limited of light. Curved perfectly in heart shapes when folded, to being twice the size of a man’s arm when extended.

Magic however was free and allowed. There are plenty of gifted seers and healers and elementals who live in the city and in the other forests of Busan; even elves live among the humans, a fair trade for their aid in the war. A college was even built for those who wish to study magic.

However, that didn’t stop the angels from trapping and enslaving any humans who dare cross into _their_ land. Many unfortunate travelers are ambushed along certain roads close to the border, and thrown in the slave camps to rot. His father as tried so many times to free them without means of war, but none can forget history.

He wondered what that prisoner was like. If he had a lover, if he had a family whom he would never return to. Dying – rather than serving the Angels – was the only choice left for him.

Jimin looks at the sunlight filtering through the curtains and panes of the window, how the trees swayed in the wind with their long bony arms and emerald leaves. He suppresses a shiver.

Yoongi is now reading other reports, that file on the prisoner nothing more than an everyday prisoner break attempt. While he tunes out his friend yet again, Jimin continues to watch the dancing rays of light, saying a silent prayer for the prisoner, wishing him well.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

Tonight the tavern is packed with various mercenaries, courtesans sitting in their laps, and men – lots and lots of drunk, boisterous men. Card games, dice, barrels of ale free-flowing, the counter smeared with condensation, and bottles of rare wine are scattered throughout. The counter rattles slightly and off to his left, he hears the roaring cheers of a group of men in a drinking contest, one wiping his mouth sloppily with the back of his wrist. Several of the courtesans giggle and clap merrily, a few breaking away from the pack to prowl around tables.

Though none of them bothered to approach the back corner, where Kim Namjoon sits at a table with a book in his hand. He knew the barmaids had been watching him since he strolled in, and not just because of the assortment of weapons gleaming along his body, corded in muscle. He wears a heavy hood so the lights of the dimly lit tavern cast shadows across the panes of his lower chin. They only go near him simply to refill his mug.

Many would wonder why he wears an ornate gold brooch the size of a robin’s egg. It made him such an easy target for thieves who want to try their luck. He wore it to _invite_ trouble, actually. If they were good enough, he might just let them. So it was only a matter of time before one of them tried to rob him.

No one knew who he was; no one knew that the man beneath the hood was Kim Namjoon, the most notorious huntsman in Busan’s empire. But then again, he didn’t want them to know. _Couldn’t_ let them know, actually.

Sitting across from him, a chessboard sitting in-between, is his protégé, Jeon Jungkook. He moves one of his knights diagonally, and after a moment of contemplation, he relaxes back into his chair. “You’re move, hyung.”

Quirking a brow at his protégé, Namjoon lowers his book to gaze at the board, and his opponent. He marks the page of his book and gently shuts it as he sets it aside. “Why should I bother?” Namjoon quietly chuckles. “You always win.”

“No. You always _let_ me win.”

Namjoon smiles. “I suppose you are my weakness, my magnae.” Jungkook returns his smile as he leans forward to observe the board.

Bearing a black cloak like him, the shadows hide the boy’s features. He’s not stunningly handsome by any means, a still-developing man; but that doesn’t hinder him in the slightest. Having inherited his mother’s looks, his icy silver doe-eyes and gentle features would earn him more women than any courtesan would hope to dream. And his wheat-brown hair falls in a shining curtain over his forehead.

But the real admiration is in his body: so lethal and hardened with muscle that many wouldn’t believe that he’s only nineteen. Namjoon spent years honing the boy’s skills, as well as emotions into a hardened blade to use against others. It’s been like that since he found the boy half-dead and frozen alongside a riverbank years ago.

“Very well. Queen to rock five. Checkmate.”

“Damn.” Jungkook hisses and sighs, leaning his cheek against his knuckles.

Namjoon chuckles. “Learn from loss, Jungkook, and your day will come.” He leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the hardcover of his book. He can see Jungkook shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Your possibilities will be endless once the magic awakens in your heart.”

“It won’t.” Jungkook snapped, quietly enough that no one else in the bustling tavern could hear. “We both know it won’t. I’m not like them.”

Namjoon adjusts his cloak to show off his weapons more easily to the guests; warding them off unless they want to lose a limb. Two of the barmaids had hooked their hair behind their ears in a futile attempt to overhear them. But the huntsmen knew how to keep their voices low.

“All the men of your blood are gifted, Jungkook. And in time, you will find the source of your power – just as they found theirs.”

“We’ll see.” He sighs.

Namjoon relaxes his shoulder and waits as the youngest resets the chess board.

Jungkook had only been eight when Namjoon found him by that riverbed, and brought him to his home set on the border of Busan and Gyeonggi-do. While he trained him to be his finest and most loyal huntsman, the boy always seemed to dread living in Busan. He had been newly orphaned, but even at eight, he knew that a life with Namjoon was a chance to start over. To escape the fate that had led him to leap into the icy river that night.

Namjoon assumed the boy would’ve been reduced to a high-end courtesan with his looks. But that would be a waste of such swift feet, strong muscles, and stunning, intelligent eyes.

Through his research, Namjoon discovered Jungkook’s heritage, and kept closer attention to him when he entered his adolescent years. Through the history of his family, Jungkook’s bloodline had been blessed with magic since the first elf married into the family centuries ago. Though he doesn’t bare pointed ears and elongated canines, the magic still remained despite a small drought in the family for a decade. But this wasn’t just any magic, _this_ . . .

Jungkook belonged to a powerhouse of magic-wielders. A bloodline so mighty that many feared they would rise and start their own rule.

But they never did.

The family kept quiet, and attempted to be as normal as they could. As if they could forget that they held such great power.

But, perhaps that’s what some of them wanted. There were many records of the blood power consuming its wielder, driving them into insanity. Other members were quick to quell such impurity, and it was quick and brutal.

Jungkook never favored his magic, in fact, he highly resented it. After a few bad incidences, he grew to fear it, and made a promise he would never use it again. And low and behold, the boy kept his word.

Once in a while, Namjoon caught him contemplating the gifts he’d forsaken, though the memory of his abilities still haunts the young man.

Despite what it means among his family, Jungkook stated he was glad that his magic was gone. It was far too dangerous for any child to wield; his gifts might have destroyed him by this point.

“Alright, you make the first move.” He says.

Namjoon holds his chin, calculating, debating, analyzing. He takes his pope and sets it once space ahead and leans back. While Jungkook contemplates his next move, Namjoon raises his mug to signal the barmaid over. She nods and ducks behind the counter. She emerges seconds later with a tray balanced on her shoulder and begins the journey through the throng. He almost feels bad making her travel through, but this rutting heat has made him sweat through his leather armor.

Jungkook sighs with satisfaction. “Alright hyung, your move.”

Looking to the board, he finds the young man has moved his Priestess diagonally and he only smiles with mischief. “Are you sure that was a bright idea?”

Taking his Queen, Namjoon moves his piece across, knocking over Jungkook’s.

“Dammit!” he cries, and Namjoon smiles.

“Still want me to let you win?”

The boy leans back in his chair, pouting. “No! I’ll accept my loss as a man.”

Namjoon’s smile grows wider as the barmaid makes it safely to their table. “It would seem you have an abyss for a stomach.” She says as a way of greeting.

She sets down the fresh plate and bowl of food and takes the pitcher she’s been balancing on her shoulder and pours more fruit flavored ale into the mug he had pushed into the center of the table.

“Thank you.” Namjoon’s voice is low and cool – cultured. Educated.

Respectfully, she curtseys and walks back to the bar through the field of groping hands, eyes downcast as she platers a distant smile on her face, but with her cheeks slightly pink. Namjoon watches her until she makes it back behind the safety of the bar.

“Have there been any new contracts, hyung?” Jungkook asks.

“None yet. I’m still waiting on a report from the Buk District. Everything else, there isn’t enough coin to make it worth the time.” Namjoon takes a sip of the ale, humming with delight when he detects a slight sweetness of berries. “Why? Are you bored already?”

The boy gives a shrug of his shoulders, fiddling with his King chess piece. Namjoon smiles.

“Welcome to the not-so-brilliant life of a huntsman. Besides, I thought this heat would make you relieved we’re not running around and sweating through our armor.”

“It’s just the matter of doing something. Sitting in this heat, I feel like I’m roasting alive.”

Namjoon can only chuckle as he takes one of his pawns and moves it forward. As he sets it down, as he readies to inform Jungkook it’s his turn, he pauses.

Something changed in the atmosphere – he could feel it. And suddenly it’s as if all eyes are upon him. Jungkook has his finger tapping the scared wood of the table, his hooded head shifting to look around the room. His posture is stiff, and eyes are alert.

Namjoon slouches in his seat to look relaxed, and scans the tavern too. There are groups of mercenaries seated playing card games, plenty more courtesans sitting on their laps, tracing crimson nails along their collars.

Last call is in thirty minutes, and then the barmaids will escort them all out.

What is wrong? What is happening? The tavern itself is practically thirsting for bloodshed.

And then the doors to the tavern open, and all heads turn as another cloaked figure steps in.

His features are concealed well from the hood of his cloak, but just from the shape of his chin, Namjoon could tell he has soft features, and that he’s extremely handsome. Bearing a dark blue cape, the fur lining alone spoke volumes of his wealth. He pulls it closer to himself. Nervous, and innocent.

An easy target. Jungkook is studying him like a predatory cat, never breaking eye contact, especially when his companion follows close behind him, this one is more built, and makes it clear that he carries a weapon, his red cloak floating behind him like a phantom wind.

This one had a more pronounced jawline in comparison, though Namjoon could see a glint of an earring as he observed the bar. A bodyguard?

Even more of an invitation of trouble than Namjoon’s brooch. Only the upper class walked around with guards because they were too pathetic to learn how to defend themselves. He remembers a handful of _smart_ courtesans who came to his home in search of lessons of self-defense.

They put up a decent act though, the one in the red putting his arm around his wealthy friend and laugh cheerfully as they make their way to an available table well away from the crowd. Set in the corner opposite of Namjoon and Jungkook’s table, the noble sits down while the red-cloaked companion walks over to the bar for drinks.

With his back to them, the young man didn’t notice Jungkook’s observance while Namjoon looks all around the bar. Oh he’s definitely caught the attention of half the courtesans and some sailors and mercenaries are eyeing his cloak, wondering what size coin purse dangles at his belt.

Twilight is falling, and soon the night. If he doesn’t make it out before dark, it won’t end well for him. Namjoon only chuckles as he sees the mischievous smile on Jungkook’s face, both of them amused by the stupidity.

“Should we?” he asks.

Namjoon whispers, “No. Not yet. Let’s wait and see. Maybe his companion will prove his worth.”

They were above stealing; Namjoon had more than plenty of wealth, but they had hearts, contrary to what others think. They’ve saved more women and men from thugs than they should, and without charge. This one might not be much of a difference.

“We’ll see what happens.”

Even with joking aside, as the two huntsmen resume their focus to their game, neither could shake the grim feeling as the atmosphere of the inn howls for blood.

* * *

Jimin was excited – jubilant even – as he and Yoongi stroll through the marketplace. The sky is a gorgeous combination of soft pinks and purples and reds, and Jimin feels like a child as he hurries up to each stall and storefront to observe the wares.

After the grueling hours of sitting and listening, his father finally adjourned the meeting and suggested they go on a hunting party in the castle gardens. Jimin instead used the excuse of his mother needing him to run errands to escape with Yoongi into the marketplace.

Banners are strung across the cobblestone path, wagons filled with an assortment of flowers. All of the villagers merry-making of the coming up summer festival. Flicking the hood of his cloak over his head, Jimin makes sure it hides every strand of silver hair that makes him so easily recognizable. Along with dressing in ‘normal’ attire fit for the marketplace. A simply faded blue tunic with dark pants and boots. Even with his fur-lined cloak, he hopes he looks adequate.

The lower market is laid out like a man’s back. The main road forms the spine and leads towards the castle’s North Tower, while smaller roads and alleys branch off like ribs running east and west.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” Yoongi asks after he hands the adjusts the two intimidating short swords at his waist.

“I just want to look around.” Jimin says as they walk their way through the masses of people.

The first stall he reaches is a trestle table laden with a few remaining crates of juicy pears and thick-skinned melons. A woman and her husband squeeze the fruit between their fingers before loading up their sack, murmuring to each other as they weigh each choice.

Peeking through his hood, Jimin watches as Yoongi follows him. Yoongi was a fairly attractive man, in his twenties with alabaster.

“So what’s the point of coming here if we’re not buying anything?” he asks.

“Don’t tell me you’re complaining.” Jimin pesters. “I went through your brutal training holding my tongue until it bled. Literally.” 

Yoongi rolls his midnight eyes. “That’s different. I was training you to protect yourself if you were ever to get in trouble. This is just, shopping.”

“Well I just wanted to have a look around the marketplace, okay? I almost never get to come here.”

“Oh quit complaining like you’re a caged bird.” Yoongi interjects.

Jimin pouts his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I thought I’d get to know the villagers.”

“Commoners?”

“ _Villagers_.” Jimin emphasizes. The term commoners to him felt so degrading.

Passing the butcher, the man is already cleaning his knives and packing away the last of his mutton, and wrinkles Jimin’s nose as the rusty scent of drying sheep’s blood lies heavy on the air, mingling with the smell of mud. Walking the street, he passes a few stalls consisting of a candle maker, a man selling fruits and a woman selling hand-knitted clothing items.

Two more stalls down, they reach the candle maker’s and the first of the west-running roads. He tucks his head down, hiding both his hair and his face beneath his hood. No one stops them as they make a left turn, though he feels the stares burning through the fabric of his cloak. The confounded thing wasn’t the smartest thing to wear, but he didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing him, otherwise he would draw a crowd.

The two approach the town’s square, the road turning to cobblestone as the silhouette of the fountain comes into view. A statue of Jimin’s great-great-great-grandfather stood atop the fountain. He rode a horse that reared its head, eyes bugging, hooves pawing at the air. His arm held a mighty sword, armed and ready to charge into battle. Water pours from underneath the horse’s hooves, streaming down and around the circular basin into the polished base where villagers sat and mingled.

Walking around the cul-de-sac and they’ll be walking into the avenue of storefronts, the much wealthier part of the city with its clothes and jewelry, and baked goods and little antique shops. A young woman is by the fountain, a lovely violin on her shoulder and an even more lovely song emanating from the instrument. She wears a simple rose-pink dress stopping just above the knee, and soft slippers. She dances gracefully while the instrument sings. A small bowl is in front of her, barely filled with coins of copper and silver.

Adjusting his hood, Jimin walks over and stands among the crowd as the young woman dances and plays. He joins the crowd in applause when she finishes and takes a bow, and then he feels Yoongi’s hand on his shoulder.

He smiles as Yoongi hands him a cupcake wrapped in paper. Chocolate, and it smells divine!

“See.” Jimin grins. “This isn’t so bad.”

“It also wasn’t so bad either when I was lying on my couch.”

Jimin hushes his voice when he says, “How is it that such a lazy person came to be captain of my father’s guard?”

Yoongi smiles. “You’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

“How so?”

“Never. Because for you to find out, it would have to be in an undesirable situation.”

“Seeing your skills has always been a wonder of mine.”

“Keep wondering, princeling.” Yoongi smiles.

After an elbow to the ribs, the two enter the wealthier part of the district. Jimin absolutely _loved_ this avenue, where all the finer things in life were sold and bartered! Jewelers, hatters, clothiers, confectioneries, clobbers . . . Unsurprisingly, Yoongi stomped right past every window, not even glancing at the delights displayed inside.

Meanwhile, a ravenous sot of hunger arises inside him as they pass shop after shop. Each window displays jackets and tunics, which stand proudly behind lines of sparkling jewelry and broad-rimmed hats clumped together like bouquets of flowers.

He keeps close to Yoongi as they walk, finishing his cupcake and disposing of the trash. They pass a couple of hours by browsing the marketplace, Jimin making sure not to buy anything too noticeable, but he did give in when he saw a bejeweled dagger.

Strapped to his belt, twilight is getting ready to fall as he and Yoongi enter the Iron Pickax, a tavern that’s not exactly at the lowest of the low, but it certainly isn’t a high-ranking tea court. Except tonight it seemed crowded with a not-so-desirable crowd. He could smell the sailors and mercenaries before they passed the threshold.

It took the prince by surprise to see how many sailors, mercenaries, and courtesans were here tonight, considering this wasn’t a tavern set in the slums. Then again, he doesn’t spend many evenings in this part of town anyway; he doesn’t even spend many evenings outside the castle. And the Summer Festival _is_ coming within a span of two weeks, but should people really be celebrating this early?

He and Yoongi put up a great act of being close friends enjoying the night, and he goes to sit down while Yoongi orders a couple of drinks form the bar. Adjusting his cloak and still pulling on the hood, Jimin can’t help but feel rather intimidated by the roar of the crowd in such an enclosed space. He keeps an easy eye on Yoongi with his bloodred cloak, but he also can’t help but stare at the two men in the other corner enjoying a game of chess.

Peering ever so slightly over his shoulder, they are both wearing black, bearing expensive weapons and one wearing a ruby brooch with the jewel as big as a robin’s egg. His heart sinks slightly, feeling the predatory glance from them, even if their eyes are hidden in the shadows of their hoods.

Jimin breathes deeply, relaxing his shoulders so his nervous demeanor doesn’t attract the men here, waiting like wolves. He leans back in his chair, one gloved hand on the table. Relief sinks in as Yoongi comes back towards the table, two mugs held in his one hand, the other hanging casually by the hilt of his sword.

He sits down and slides one drink to Jimin, the two clink and take a swig. Jimin almost spit his out it tasted so sour, so cheap, yet Yoongi licks his lips and takes another one before setting his mug down.

“Not quite fitting your pallet, my friend?”

Jimin’s lip peels back in disgust. He gently pushes the mug away. “It’s just not what I expected.”

Yoongi chuckles, and speaks softly. “It’s ale. What did you expect? It’s not like the wine you drink every day at dinners.”

Jimin shushes him immediately, feeling the two men hearing every word they speak. “Keep quiet.”

“Why did we even stop here? We should’ve just gone home.”

Jimin shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I just wanted to stall time beforehand. I’m not ready to going back to being enclosed in my room.”

“ _Rooms_.” Yoongi reminds, his tone quieter. “You have multiple rooms.”

Jimin pouts, and his nerves prickle as he looks back towards the bustling crowd, a large uproar of cheering from a man who just won a game of Kings. A brave waitress navigates through the crowd with a tray balanced on her shoulder, a distant smile plastered on her face. She hands them both a bowl of delicious smelling soup, and refills their mug with from the pitcher she kept in her other hand.

The two of them nod and thank her, the girl bowing and turning back to go through the crowd of groping hands and wolf whistles. As the two of them dig in, the soup being better than he expected, Jimin can’t shake a chill as it snakes up his spine. So distinct that eh actually dropped his spoon to feel his back for a rat.

He didn’t know how or when it happened, but the atmosphere seemed to have changed on a dime. It’s as if all of the men were waiting for something. He looked over his shoulder to the two hooded men. So did many of the other patrons. Were they all waiting for them to get up? He could tell there were some people eyeing the men like carrion. Jimin wanted to warn the men, but he was too intimidated by the crowd.

But why would he wear that brooch if he knew it was trouble?

Unless he wanted it . . . and if that’s the case, Jimin didn’t want to know what they were capable of. Especially with those expensive looking weapons and the dark leather armor he could see under their cloaks. They had to be sweating buckets beneath those layers, but they sure did a great job at not showing their irritation.

And Jimin didn’t want to risk irking them further, and winding up with a slit throat.

So he just enjoys the soup and ale to the best of his court-trained charm and made sure to scoot himself closer to Yoongi, who was also eyeing the rest of the bar.

His skin crawled and he nearly flinched in fear as the two men in black rose up from their seats, flipped two silvers to the brown-haired server and prowled through the crowd towards the front door.

Jimin watched in awe as they walked with a feline grace, their cloaks floating behind in ominous waves of black.

As if on cue for the rest of the patrons, Jimin’s heart sank as the majority of the crowd suddenly stood, stretching and yawning coyly, saying it was time for them to retire for the night. The courtesans pouted and attempted to persuade the men to stay, but they simply brushed them off and left, not even paying a tip.

He didn’t hear the bell ring for last call, so he looked to Yoongi, and the captain only shakes his head.

“Don’t do it.”

“But what if they don’t know?”

“Trust me, Jimin. They know, you figured that out already. Just leave them be.”

Looking back to the doorway, biting his lip as he stirred his spoon in his bowl. Yoongi was probably right, he usually is. But the amount of men leaving the tavern, the place is already half-empty in the span of two minutes. Now the courtesans are going to start prowling to their table, though thankfully some have given up on their act and just sit at the available tables exchanging gossip and what they thought of the sailors.

Within the next minute, the rest of the tavern is vacated, with last call being five minutes away. Jimin would’ve heeded Yoongi’s words, if not for the last mercenary who palmed a dagger as he passed the threshold of the front door.

Without thinking, or hesitation, Jimin pushed his bowl aside and rose from his seat, lying to Yoongi he had to use the restroom. He walked over to the barmaid and asked where it was, and when she pointed, he was relieved to find it close to the back door of the tavern.

He casually made his way across the hall and then slipped through the back door and out into an alley.

The nightly chill was a relief for him as he whipped of his hood and scanned his surroundings. He didn’t know where to find them, he didn’t even know where they went. Did they go far? Were they gone already?

As he turns in a circle, heading to the exit of the alley and into the open streets, he looked left and right for any signs of the two men, or for any signs of a fight.

No blood trails, no bodies, no drag marks, just an ominous mist coming from the Saha-go river. His boots click against the moistened stone, and just as he was about to sneak back inside the inn, embarrassed by his fruitless effort, there’s the sound of another step coming deeper from within the alley.

Looking back down, he only sees the oil lamp dangling by the back door, and multiple flies buzzing near it.

“Is that you?” he asks quietly. Another scrap of boot, and a ripple of darkness. “I’m glad I caught you in time. I’m surprised you’re still around, but the men in tavern are after you and –” he starts, but pauses as four figures stepped from the mist.

Men. Some of the mercenaries from the tavern.

“We appreciate the concern, _Prince_.” One speaks, widening his lips to reveal a snaggletooth smile and a deadly looking blade in his hand.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

Jimin is already moving for the open doorway in a heartbeat, but they were fast – faster.

One blocks the back door while another comes up behind him, grabbing him tight and pulling him against his massive body. “Scream and I’ll slit your throat, prince.” He whispered in Jimin’s ear, the prince nearly coughing at the smell of mead on his breath. “It’s a rarity to see royalty walking around here. Give us your coin purse and we might just let you go.”

Jimin doesn’t know what he would’ve done next: fought or cried or begged or even attempt to scream for Yoongi. But he didn’t have to decide.

The man farthest from them, guarding the front of the alley is yanked into the mist with a strangled cry.

The mercenary holding Jimin whirls, dragging Jimin with him. There’s a ruffle of clothing, a gagging of blood, and a heavy thump.

Then silence; palpable and thick, nearly making Jimin swallow, but he didn’t want to cut his own throat.

“Cho?” the man blocking the door calls.

Nothing.

The third mercenary – carefully making his way towards the head of the alley, draws his sword. Jimin didn’t have time to cry out in surprise as a dark figure slips from the mist and grabs him. Not from the front, but from the side, as if he just appeared out of nowhere.

The mercenary throws Jimin to the ground and draws his sword from his waist, a broad, wicked looking blade. Another coughing of blood and then silence.

“Come out your coward!” the ringleader shouts. “Come out and face us like a man.”

A low, soft laugh.

Jimin’s blood goes cold. He could feel the coolness and cultured voice that the laugh belongs to.

“Just like you proper men surrounded His Highness in an alleyway?”

Then, the stranger steps from the mist.

The other one, because he didn’t have the brooch.

But he _does_ have two long daggers in his hands, both dark and dripping with blood.

Gods. Oh, gods.

Jimin’s breathing quickens as the man steps closer to the two remaining attackers. The first mercenary peels back his lip in a growl, but the one blocking the door was wide-eyed, and even in the dim light of the oil lamp, Jimin could tell he paled.

“You killed my men?” the mercenary says, blade held aloft.

The man flipped one of his daggers into a new position. One that Jimin knew would allow the blade to go straight through the ribs and into the heart.

“Your men got what they deserved.”

His voice was gravely, deep almost sounding like that of a demon and not a young man. Jimin carefully, so carefully backs away. Not even caring that his cloak and hands and pants and boots are soaking in what he only hopes is rain puddles.

The mercenary lunges, but the cloaked man is waiting. Jimin knew he should run – run and get Yoongi – because the young man is only armed with two daggers, and this man is enormous, and –

It was over before he could grasp what happened. The mercenary got two swings, both met with the boy’s wicked-looking daggers. And then he spins and slashes across the man’s stomach. As he sags to his knees, the young man drives his foot into the side of the man’s head. He collides with the brick building and slumps to the ground unmoving.

So fast – so unspeakably fast and graceful. A wraith moving through the mist.

The one blocking the door is so immobilized by fear that he didn’t even notice the door open behind him, flooding the alley with light.

Jimin watches in horror as the man’s eyes suddenly widen and his head tilts back. He grunts and gags as the blade of a sword penetrates through his chest and clothes. There’s a sickening slosh and the blade is painted and dripping in red. Some of it splatters onto Jimin’s face, but he doesn’t move, his own eyes wide to show the whites all around.

The man’s arms twitch in a feeble attempt to reach for his chest, but he’s pushed forward, crumpling to the steps and showing the second cloaked man behind him. This one still wears the brooch, his lower chin covered in mask, only showing his cognac eyes that flare with a controlled anger that makes Jimin cower.

He places his foot on the man’s shoulder and with a sickening sucking sound, he removes his blade, dripping blood onto the man’s body. Jimin stares at the man, almost entranced by those eyes. So much that he almost forgot about the young man as he approaches. His blades are clean but still out. Still ready.

He walks with a swagger that many would admire, and Jimin can see his face is covered with a mask too. His crystal blue eyes are just as intense, and contrast greatly against his black clothing.

“Please don’t kill me.” Jimin whispers. He is ready to beg, to offer everything in exchange for his life as he stares between the two killers.

But the one older male of the two just laughs under his breath and says, “Then what would’ve been the point in saving you?”

Then Yoongi is bursting past the cloaked man, knocking his shoulder, but he remains upright, immobile. Yoongi drops to his knees and holds Jimin’s blood speckled face, his midnight eyes hardened with anger. “What the hell were you thinking you idiot?!” he yells, his hands moving to Jimin’s shoulders to shake him. “I told you to leave them alone!”

The prince watches the man’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead as he says, “You two must have quite the close connection if you’re allowed to call His Highness such profanities.”

Yoongi barely glances over his shoulder in answer, “You don’t know the half of it.”

Jimin’s lips tremble as he tries to find words. It doesn’t help him much as the man cleans his blade with the dead man’s shirt, and his – protégé, Jimin will assume – approaches with quiet steps, sheathing his blades at last.

His eyes dart between the two cloaked men, the dead bodies in the alley, and his Captain of the Guard. “I-I’m sorry hyung. I just, I thought I needed to warn them. The tavern practically emptied when they left and I was worried. I thought I should at least warn them.”

“Then you must _really_ have a poor sense of judgment if you think we needed your help.” The younger man says, and Jimin flinches as if he’d just slapped him.

Yoongi whirls his head to glare, but the young man only folds his arms.

“Now, now my protégé – we mustn’t insult His Highness; not when we both know his actions come from a place of, care.” The man says as he leans against the doorway, the young man rolling his eyes.

Jimin finally has the strength to wipe his face, his skin itching from the dried blood. Bile rise at the back of his throat, but quickly swallows it back.

“So what do you want?” Yoongi asks softly after a moment of silence.

The man wearing the brooch raises an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“What reward do you want, for saving High Highness? Gold?”

The man chuckles coolly while his protégé adjusts his hood, his eyes hardened and unamused. “We won’t take anything; at least, not right now.”

“Oh, so noble.” Yoongi mocks. He slowly rises up, half-turning to keep Jimin behind him. “But we both know you didn’t save the prince simply out of the goodness of your hearts. Now what do you want?”

“We have plenty of wealth.” The protégé interjects. “We don’t need yours.”

Yoongi stares at the younger man, then looks to the man. “Your protégé has quite the silver tongue.”

The man simply shrugs. “He learned it all on his own.”

As Jimin watches the three men . . . bicker, he attempts to feel useful and takes in every detail the faint torchlight will allow. The man leaning against the door looks older, possibly the same age as Yoongi, but his protégé, with the mask and the deepened voice, it’s hard to tell his age.

The only poor indication is his eyes – a striking blue, the color of frosted ice over a pigmented crystal.

Jimin points a trembling finger at the young man’s arm. “You – you’re bleeding.”

He frowns down at the little shining spot on his bicep. “I suppose I am.” He answers. “A careless mistake.”

“At least the thickness of the tunic stopped it from being a troublesome wound, but you’ll still have to clean it.” The man assesses. “It’ll heal in a week or less.”

Suddenly Jimin blurts out, “I could bind it for you!”

He feels himself shrink when the young man looks to him with those cold eyes. “I can bind myself up just fine.”

He begins to head for the door leading into the tavern, but Jimin persists. “Chilyo knows what was on that blade.” That makes the two men pause.

The man narrows his brows, and Jimin could’ve sworn the fabric of his mark pinched near his cheeks. Was he smiling? “Now that is interesting. Very few invoke the Goddess of Healing unless . . .”

“I took up lessons with a healer, and she taught me a few helpful things,” the prince stammers. “I could – I could . . . please let me repay the debt I owe you.”

“You wouldn’t owe us anything if you had just used some common sense.” says the man.

It was in such a gentle tone, but still Jimin flinched as if the man had screamed it at him.

“I’m sorry.” he says softly, bowing to the two men.

“What are you apologizing to us for?” the younger one speaks. “Why are you apologizing at all? Those men had it coming. But you should have been smarter on a night like this – when I bet all my money that you could taste the aggression in that taproom.”

Yoongi looks to the man, “If you don’t leash your apprentice and his tongue, then I will. And I’ll cut it out for him.”

“So ungrateful, and after we saved your precious prince. It would be unfortunate if such news of your slack ever reached the king and queen.”

Yoongi snarls.

The man shrugs nonchalantly. “Look, we all know it’s not his fault. Not his fault at all that he doesn’t know how to fight back.”

Something, a little spark of something in stirs inside Jimin at the indirect insult. While he wasn’t the most confident in his fighting skills, and while he can’t think so quick on his feet, he is _certainly not_ completely useless. And he can prove it.

He takes a few deep breaths, then clears his throat. “Let me clean your arm,” he says in a voice that was stronger, clearer. “Or you’ll wind up losing it.”

And it’s this slight change that kept the cloaked men interested. Enough that they follow Jimin inside. At least, after the exchange of a nod between master and protégé. The man said not to bother with bodies in the alley, saying that only the rats and carrion-feeders will care about them.

After the remaining staff collected themselves from seeing Jimin, they quickly gather a bowl, some fresh rags and bandages, and a small tin can of healing salve.

He left Yoongi and the two men in the main dining room while he helped the staff gather the supplies, and also made sure to pay for it should their manager realize they were gone. He makes quick work of wiping his own face of the speckled blood. He doesn’t let himself think too much about that.

When he returns, Yoongi is leaning against the bar, a fair distance away from the men who are seated at a table, and –

Jimin almost drops the steaming bowls.

The man’s protégé has removed his hood and cloak . . . and tunic.

Jimin didn’t know what surprised him the most:

That the boy was young – perhaps two or three years younger than Jimin himself – but _felt_ old.

Or that he is so achingly handsome. His bare torso is gloriously tan from the summer – suggesting days spent training in the sun. Scars of varying lengths are scattered across his back, chest, and shoulders – some of them slender and even, some of them thicker and jagged. A life spent training and battling . . . his body is a map of his adventures.

But in the better lighting of the tavern, Jimin could also see the emblem that was invisible against the darkness of the alley, etched into the leather of the young man’s armor.

An intricate picture of a lion with the blade of a sword clamped between its teeth, lips snarling in hatred.

The emblem of the Huntsmen – the Butchers of the Damned, Knights of Damnation.

Their leader Kim Namjoon, is their master and rightfully named King of the Underworld. His skills are unmatched, and has eyes all over the city, his Shadows, learning secrets so deep that not even Jimin’s father had attempted to hunt him down.

Not to mention that he is extremely handsome – at least, that’s what the rumors had claimed. Very few have encountered Kim Namjoon, and lived to tell it.

Jimin tries not to let himself think about that, or think about how he could be facing the King of the Underworld himself, as he approaches the table where the protégé sits.

He is just staring at Jimin, as still and as quiet as a cat. His earrings winking delicately in the light.

Jimin wants to ask his name, but at the same time, it is not his place to ask questions. Not when the young man had dispatched those men in a matter of moments. His fingers ruffle his chocolate brown hair and water sloshes in the bows as Jimin sets them down on the table, sitting across from the young man and trying to keep his hands from trembling too much.

No one says anything while Jimin inspects the cut on the young man’s arm. He could feel Yoongi’s eyes now extremely alert, but the older Huntsman is just sitting in a chair, leaning back with his feet up on the table.

The young Huntsman’s arm is wide and rock hard with muscle. He offered no explanation for the various scars adorning his skin, and is seemed to Jimin that he wore them like a proud badge.

Really, he couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen, but a life among the Huntsmen can make a person grow up too fast.

Jimin sets about washing the wound, and the boy hisses softy. “Sorry,” Jimin quickly apologizes. “The staff had put some herbs in there as an antiseptic.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He grumbles.

Jimin gathers his courage and speaks, “I would’ve assumed you’ve been through worse.”

“Oh I have; believe me.”

“I do.” Those scars spoke volumes. And it could explain the hood. “So what’s your name?”

“It’s none of your concern, and it doesn’t matter.”

Jimin bit his tongue. Of course it wasn’t any of his business, not when the Huntsmen always worked on secret business, and rarely – if not never – did they get their plans revealed to anyone. One of the many reasons why no one has been able to quench their guild.

“I just thought it would’ve been appropriate to know the name of my rescuers.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He sharply repeats. “We’re not taking your payment anyway.”

Jimin chuckles, a slight huff from his nose. “Quite alluring. Mysterious. Oh how the women must flock to you.”

He hears a hum come from next to them, the older Huntsman smiling underneath his mask, at least, he hopes judging from the scrunched fabric of his mask.

Then the young Huntsman speaks, “Since you’re asking so many questions, what’s the son of His Majesty doing out here so late in the evening. Aren’t you supposed to be inside the castle?”

Just blunt, if not almost bored, curiosity.

“I was bored to tears listening to repeated speeches and reports in those council meetings. So when I had the opportunity to escape, I did. My father took his court on a hunting party, and meanwhile I left with my captain.” Jimin dips the rag into the water, wrings it out, and resumes cleaning the shallow wound. “I never get to browse the marketplace that often anyway, I love exploring the wares and shops.”

A snort. And the young man says, “What do you mean you don’t get to browse the marketplace? You’re the prince, you should be able to go wherever you want.”

“Yes, but it is easier said than done.” It comes out smarter than Jimin intended – smarter than was smart, considering how lethal these men were. “My father, he’s . . . complicated.”

“Then explain it to him.”

“It’s not like that.” Jimin set the bowl and rag aside and pulls out a small tin of salve. The workers gave it to him, insisting they only use it for small nicks and scrapes they got while working. As gently as he can, he smears it onto the young man’s wound. He doesn’t flinch this time.

After a moment, the young man asks, “So what _is_ your father like?”

“Strict. Controlling. Impulsive, and doesn’t want to hear anyone else’s opinion.” Jimin immediately answers, not even needing a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Gosh, tell me how you really feel.” Jimin looks up and finds the young man with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

Jimin doesn’t falter returning it. “Wow, a reaction! Thank the gods I’ve amused you.”

The prince can’t hide his pride and beaming smile when this draws a chuckle from both the Huntsmen and Yoongi.

“But really, my father doesn’t let me out much because by his claim, he has so many other problems, and worrying about my safety shouldn’t be one of them.”

“So he decides to keep you locked up in that stone cage than have to worry about you wandering the marketplace, when really he shouldn’t, because you have the Captain of the Royal Guard with you.” The older huntsman summarizes.

Jimin gives a stiff nod.

The huntsman gives a snort. “And this is the man who is running our country? Encouraging.”

“Watch your tongue Huntsman.” Yoongi warns.

“I shouldn’t have to, since he’s not likely going to hear it. Not when we saved his precious son’s life.”

Jimin should stand up for his father, but it felt, rejuvenating to hear someone else have the same perspective as him. Grateful to know that his conjurations of his father isn’t just something he made up in his imagination. He remains quiet as he starts to wrap the bandage around the young man’s arm.

He’ll have to be careful not to say anything to make the Huntsmen turn on him. Even with Yoongi here, after seeing how swift the younger one took out those mercenaries, and with the possibility that the other one could be Kim Namjoon himself, Jimin doesn’t think they’ll walk out of here alive.

Having the younger huntsman remove his hood must’ve been a controversy itself. But Jimin doesn’t know his name or who he is, and with him watching the prince like a bird of prey, it would seem that he’ll have to carry this, secret, to his grave.

“Are you sure there’s nothing that I can pay you with?” he finally asks.

The two huntsmen look to one another and the older one sighs. “No princeling. There’s nothing. We have plenty of our own wealth, and you’re not the first person we’ve had to rescue. And you certainly won’t be the last.”

Jimin swallows back his response, and gives a slight dip of his chin. “Very well.” He scoots his chair back further from the young huntsman and gather the items. “I believe that should take of your wound.”

“Thank you.” The young man says and immediately starts to gather his tunic and leather armor. Even that is etched with white scars all over.

Jimin nods to the two men and returns to the staff kitchen, of which they immediately come and take the items from him, bowing repeatedly. When he returns, Yoongi is sitting at the bar chair, and the huntsmen are still there. Again donned in his black, the two look like nothing more than gliding wraiths. They turn to Jimin when he enters, still wiping his hands with a clean rag.

“Any parting words, dear prince?” the older huntsman asks, his weapons gleaming.

Jimin pauses for a moment, folding in his lips and sucking on a tooth. “No. No I don’t think so. Except for another thank you.”

The younger one immediately heads for the door of the tavern, more than done with tonight. Done with Jimin.

The prince had joined up with Yoongi, readying his own cloak when the older Huntsman speaks.

“Now, just so I’m clear, dear prince . . . Just because we didn’t accept your payment today, that doesn’t mean that I’m so easily going to forget this.” His eyes are hardened, and suddenly Jimin feels like a caged bird being watched by a calculating cat. “Believe me when I say that if we need your help, we will contact you. I only hope that you’ll live up to your promise.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jimin can see Yoongi’s hand reaching for his sword, but the prince only nods and says, “I will, Sir Huntsman. I will not so easily forget the men who saved my life.”

“We will be watching.” The huntsman replies, sparing a quick wink as his protégé opens the door.

Then the two glide through the doorway and into the darkness, as silent as phantoms.

Jimin waits a moment before deciding that they are truly gone before he relaxes and slouches into the chair. As if the last shred of self-control had left him completely, Jimin rests his elbow atop the bar counter and sets his head in his hands.

He expects tears to start falling, to begin his long hours of sobbing due to overwhelming emotion . . . but nothing happens. He takes in rattling breaths, exhaling slowly, but no tears fall. It bewilders him. He runs his fingers through his silver hair and looks up to Yoongi.

He doesn’t look any more relaxed, in fact with the huntsmen gone, he seems more upset than before.

“Is there anything you want to say?” Jimin sighs.

“Yes, but not here with the thin walls. I prefer the security of your chamber before I explain to you how much of a stupid idiot you are for thinking you needed to want two huntsmen to be careful.”

Jimin cringes, but just sighs.

Why is he not crying? He just witnessed, murder. Shouldn’t he be shaking, crying, trembling with anxiety?

“I must admit you’re handling things better than I expected.”

Jimin nods. “It’s a little strange to me, too.”

Perhaps his lessons with the healer gave him a strong stomach. It was one of the few things that he enjoyed learning, and didn’t really bother him. He liked the idea of helping people, even tonight he had a hard time walking away from a distant cough.

“Shall we head back to the castle?” Yoongi asks, his voice softer.

Jimin can only give a nod before he gets up from his seat and locks arms with his friend. He remains quiet for the rest of the trip home.

But all the while, he looks turning his head to look around, checking his surroundings for a pair of crystalline eyes.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

The cavernous entrance hall of the Huntsmen’s Keep is silent as Jeon Jungkook stalks across the marble floor, following his hyung and master, Kim Namjoon. No one had greeted them at the towering oak doors save for the housekeeper, who’d taken their cloaks.

Namjoon’s study sits at the other end of the hall, one of the few places he goes to retreat from the other members, or to take care of private work. The location of the Keep is a well-guarded secret, one he as well as others have been trained to keep until their last breath. But even if he didn’t no one is likely to believe that an elegant manor house on a very respectable street in Busan is home to some of the greatest Huntsmen in the world. What better place to hide than in the middle of the capital city?

For years now, the Keep has remained anonymous, unremarkable, one of the many palatial homes in the wealthy southwestern district of Busan. Right under the King of Gyeongsan’s nose.

With the cloak gone, Namjoon-hyung’s features are exposed, and it still surprises Jungkook how his hyung remained youthful in appearance. Elegant, sharp features and blazingly clear hazel eyes. His ash blonde hair shimmers as they pass under the wrought chandeliers. He might not be the handsomest man he’s ever seen, but he is definitely the most alluring.

Namjoon-hyung has loved Jungkook like family, yet he put him in the most dangerous positions. He nurtured and educated him, yet he’d obliterated his innocence the first time he’d ever made him end a life. He’s given him everything, but he’s also taken everything away.

His hyung didn’t say much to him after they left the Iron Pickax tavern and roof leapt their way back towards the manor. With Namjoon’s Shadows eyeing every district, everyone knew exactly where he was, they have to be when the King of the Underworld is out of the safety of the Keep. Not that Namjoon-hyung needs protection, but still, he keeps bodyguards around.

They make it to the end of the hall and waited a couple of steps behind his hyung opened the door. Jungkook followed him inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Namjoon-hyung strides around the ornate desk. His long legs and years of training make his movements effortlessly graceful. Jungkook sits in the chair in front of the desk, swallowing back a burning in his throat.

It had been gnawing at him all night to apologize to his hyung for the events tonight. He hadn’t meant to save the Prince of Busan. It had been sheer luck that he’d spotted the four mercenaries creeping about the streets, sheer luck that that seemed as eager for trouble as he was. He had hunted them into that alley, where he saw the men ready to hurt the prince in unforgivable ways. While they had talked about saving the poor prince’s ass from the start, Jungkook still felt like it was not his place to simply spring into action without his hyung’s approval.

Namjoon-hyung has begun poring over a stack of papers, smiling faintly. He could’ve easily shooed him away, but he knew that something is bothering him, and is more than willing to listen. He just has to be the one to speak.

The fight was over too quickly to really be enjoyable. If you can even call is a fight.

Finally, he speaks the words that he felt were appropriate. “I feel the need to apologize, hyung.”

Namjoon-hyung pauses his writing and looks up him. “And why is that?” he says softly, but not weakly.

“It was wrong of me to engage in battle without your approval. It’s just, with our previous discussion, and perhaps the benefits it would bring to have the Crown Prince of Gyeongsan indebted to us, I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“You say perhaps, but what is it you’re really feeling?” Namjoon-hyung asks.

Jungkook bites his lips and peers down at the exquisite carpet beneath his feet. “Perhaps it was also my weakness?”

“What weakness?”

He hangs his head, ashamed. He clenches his hands into fists. “A part of me reached out to the prince. A part of me was begging to save him, and not just because he is the prince, but because he is still a human being.”

“Why would that be a weakness, Jungkook?” he looks up to find his hyung smiling. “You weren’t born without a heart; you have to remember that. Even with the years of training I have provided you, I taught you to separate the good from the bad.” Namjoon-hyung rises from his seat, a movement lined with restrained power. “You have a strong sense of personality thanks to your gifts. And you knew those men weren’t up to any good. And who knows, perhaps you felt the personality of the prince.”

He walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window, hands behind his back. “If you’re expecting punishment, there will be none.”

Jungkook shifts in the chair, relief flooding his veins, but still unnerved about something.

“Perhaps I’ve trained you too well.” His hyung chuckles. “You’ve become too strict. They might as well have replaced your spine with a steel bar.”

“But what shall we do from here?”

“Go on with our lives.” He says as he turns and returns to his desk. “Don’t worry, I will not forget the kindness we dealt to the prince. And I hope that he won’t either. It is as said before: having the Crown Prince of Gyeongsan could work well in our favor.”

Jungkook fidgets with his fingers as his hyung sits down and begins to go through the stack of papers he knew would keep Namjoon-hyung up in the late hours of the night.

“It’s been a long night, Jungkook.” His hyung smiles. “Go and get some rest. We will resume out daily routines and trainings tomorrow.”

Nodding in acceptance, Jungkook rises from the chair and bows to Namjoon-hyung before turning to leave the study. His boots become muffled as he comes back to the foyer and climbs the grand staircase to his room on the second floor.

He doesn’t see any other Huntsmen while on his way to his room, but then again it’s already past midnight.

Opening the double oak doors of his spacious suite, he disturbs the billowing teal curtains by the balcony doors, left opened to allow some kind of freshness from the summer’s humidity.

Done in the colors of Busan, his room consists of the main chamber, a music room, and then the bathing room all separated by doors for privacy. The ceiling is high with golden details intricately bordering around the room and morphing into a mosaic at the center. Two chandeliers hang above, their decorative crystals gleaming like diamonds, and his walls are actually covered with ornate stencils of gold. The floor is mostly covered with large, beige rugs under the sets of furniture. A large mahogany desk is near the back by the three floor-to-ceiling windows, now blocked with golden draperies.

His bed is surrounded with an elegant velvet canopy and its curtains pushed back. It’s covered with the plushiest pillows he’s ever experienced. The four-post bed is decorated with a rather old and faded crimson duvet.

Directly across the bed on the other wall is a wooden fireplace with a large oil painting set atop the mantel, then an antique clock with an impish little angel leaning on it, looking up into nothing. Two end tables flank the fireplace, and then a couch, two armchairs and a glass table surround the front. He only has one small bookcase, filled and neatly arranged.

It’s the picturesque of elegance, but gives off a warm, home-like feeling to it.

Stripping off his weapons, leaving them where they fall, he prepares himself a bath. He lights candles in the white-tiled bathroom, casting the chamber in flickering gold. He turns the brass knobs and after watching the water flow for a minute and checking the temperature, he begins to peel off his filthy, bloody clothes.

Layer by layer he strips, more than rejuvenated to be alone and naked in his own scarred skin.

The oversized porcelain tub is wide, taking three steps down until he is covered up to his neck in suds. With a sigh of pleasure, he lets the water and suds leech away his aches and pains of the night.

Yet they don’t erase the images of the prince and his captain. When he closes his eyes, he can still see them there, not as petrified worms, but just, there. He had heard whispers of the prince’s beauty, accompanied by rumors that his captain of the guard had been blessed with a handful of attractive features that compensate for the majority of average ones.

And after tonight, he could understand why.

Prince Jimin was stunning – with hair as silver as steel, and soft features that make him resemble something ethereal. His steel blue eyes were enough to capture any woman he chose, yet strangely enough, he wasn’t courting anyone. He rumors claimed he didn’t want to.

And his captain, Jungkook himself wondered if the prince had plucked him from the realm of the Fae himself. The man’s skin was whiter than snow, as if he’s never seen sunlight, with hair as black as ebony, and eyes like midnight. He would’ve seemed intimidating if Jungkook wasn’t what he was, and if he hadn’t seen the worry and fear for the prince etched on the man’s bony features.

He takes the washcloth from beside the tub and scrubs his face, bits of mud and blood clouding the water.

A part of him wonders what exactly Namjoon-huyng will do with the prince himself indebted to them. What could he use it for? they have their own wealth and reputation. Namjoon-hyung isn’t the kind to go wild with power. Perhaps he’ll keep for the back files, something to pull out in later years, when the prince has surely forgotten.

He dunks the washcloth again and covers his face with it, hoping it will somehow ease the stinging in his eyes.

Perhaps his hyung will spare the prince a kindness and just throw it all away, like he had with him the night he found Jungkook near-dead by the river.

With raising him into the finest and most feared huntsman, he never once stated that Jungkook had to pay him back. All his payments went fully to him, into his own account at the back, never once has Namjoon-hyung tried to dip a hand into that money. And with all the clothes and jewelry and weapons hyung has spent on him, Jungkook assumes it’s coming close to a near king’s fortune.

He insisted his hyung that he pay him back in some way, but all he kept insisting was that Jungkook had to pay him back through loyalty and service. Simple enough, granted there were a few contracts that Jungkook simple despised for one reason or another. Namjoon-hyung only granted him certain conditions upon Jungkook’s request: no children.

Everything always seemed easy. They target adulterated nobles and twisted tyrants. And even if Jungkook was hesitant in the slightest, his hyung had means to get him persuaded. Sometimes Namjoon-hyung would have Jungkook read documents about the crimes and treacheries the targets have committed. Document after document until Jungkook was so blind with rage, that torturing and killing them felt good. Deserved.

He never did he realize just how powerful his hyung’s grip can be. But it was a side he only saw shadowed upon by other members. He once witnessed his hyung beat another huntsman into a bloody pulp, his face unrecognizable and left him unconscious for ruining a deal with a very powerful client. The man bled onto that very same carpet in his hyung’s study, but someone did an exquisite job cleaning it off.

The huntsman’s bruises lasted for weeks, and spent nearly a week in the Keep’s dungeons. Since Jungkook watched the endeavor at only the age of nine, he knew then never to question anything his hyung says or does, unless he wanted to have the same consequences.

Yet his hyung was always so, gentle with Jungkook. Would it be because of his abilities, or because of how he discovered Jungkook so young and so near death? Somehow a part of him knew his hyung only treated him different because of his magical abilities. Abilities he was more curious of than fearful.

If only he knew.

Jungkook slips under the water, scrubbing his hair, his face, his bloody body.

When he was little, the first few years of Jungkook’s life were spent in harnessing his abilities. Constant lessons, breathing exercises, hours of meditation just to keep his abilities stable. He behaved himself, sat still, didn’t speak unless spoken to . . . he gave them what they wanted, but still they never played with him.

They used to make him play all kinds of games. They weren’t fun at all.

They would make him sit for hours at a time, just staring at a simple candle flame. Whether sunshine or rain, he was supposed to sit there until the flame changed, even if his teeth were chattering so bad they would’ve cracked.

_Can you make this flame grow bigger?_

Off to his left, one of the flames of the candle grows bigger, larger, like the flame of a torch. He takes a deep breath, and as if it follows his movements, the flame slowly dies back down.

They weren’t really games. They were training him – turning him into a weapon. For _justice_ , they said.

They got their weapon.

And he got cheated out of his childhood.

The water grows warm and Jungkook flinches when he sees bubbles starting to form. He quickly sits up and climbs up the three steps until the water is at his waist. Slowly, the bubbles disappear and the water becomes colder.

Everyone said he has a hot temper. And it’s the main reason why he was forced into such training, his magic directly fueled with emotions.

At least some of what he learned wasn’t useless. If he hadn’t bothered to learn anything, his gifts would have surely destroyed him.

Climbing fully out of the tub, Jungkook takes a towel and pats his face dry. He steps onto the bathmat and dries himself before returning to his rooms, ignoring his dripping hair. He shuts the door quietly, the sound of the fire softly crackling.

He walks over to his armoire and pulls out a nightshirt and undergarments, near leaping onto the bed, laughing as he sinks into the mattress that might as well be a cloud. He sighs and burrows under the sheets, the comforter folded back for the summer.

He prince and his guard still wander in his mind, and Jungkook is more than annoyed at wondering why. Their beauty is something to behold – but that shouldn’t be the reason.

It has been a long day, and quickly the exhaustion is seething into his skin. Turning over on his side, Jungkook plops a pillow over his head and wishes for sleep.

For the first time in a long while, Jungkook has that dream.

* * *

The ground races by beneath Jungkook’s pounding feet, the chilled autumn air stinging her lungs. As he runs, he feels his body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. He knew he'd pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full-out run.

He swings around a thin tree and slows, however, as a new thought enters his mind. He stops and stares down the road where, just ahead, he can see the side entrances to the forest.

He hesitates, taking a moment to breathe, to debate. He pulls the straps of his sheath of arrows forward, bringing the quiver flush with his back, and he feels the weight of his bow as it presses into his spine.

Even though the forest is huge, with patches split by lots of roads that twist and turn and steep rolling hills, it would be a lot faster to cut through.

Jungkook glances skyward. Through the smattering of clouds, three early night stars shine in the deepening blue, but it isn’t completely dark yet. If he goes through the forest, if he runs the whole way and manages not to get lost, he’d make it in time for sure. He knew it.

His mind made up, he darts for the forest entrance.

On either side of him loom tall trees. They seem to watch him as he veers past, taking the one-way dirt road that curves upward into the park. His path soon narrows to a single, twisting lane of grime. Rows of trees and thick underbrush emerge on either side of him. The farther into the woods he runs, the denser the surrounding forest grows.

Overhead, the interlocking patchwork of hanging boughs work to transform his pathway into a darkening tunnel. Through the lacework of limbs, thick clouds inch by.

Jungkook runs on, listening to the soft beat of his boots as they pound the ground. He can’t wait to get back to the keep and into a bath. He thinks about making himself some peppermint tea and maybe even going to bed early, even though he can’t say it was because he is looking forward to tomorrow.

Darkness creeps in around him, spreading its fingers through the trees, working to smear them into a single black blur.

As he approaches a fork in the road, he slows, but only long enough to decide that he should keep going straight.

He keeps running, his breath the loudest sound in his ears. The only sound.

Jungkook frowns, at last admitting to himself that something had felt funny since he entered the forest. Only now, however, can he place his finger on what.

He slows his run to a jog, listening to the lonely, hollow clap of his boots.

Quiet.

Everything around her stands really still and really . . . _quiet_.

The breeze that greeted him outside the entrance has vanished somewhere between there and here, and he looks up now to find the tree limbs motionless, their leaves immobile.

Or are those leaves at all?

A black shadow moves in one of the trees, and Jungkook registers the silhouette of one huge black bird. It makes no sound, though it seems to watch her from its perch. One of the leaves at its side moves. Another bird. Soon, with a ruffle of feathers, he notices another and, on her other side, another.

One of them breaks the silence with a caw, the sound falling harsh on his ears, rasping and raw.

Spooked, Jungkook picks up the pace again, glad that he’s kept himself in such great shape. True, he isn’t the world’s best runner, but he can keep going if he needs to, and right now, he needs to.

He wonders, an ice-water sensation rushing through his veins with the thoughts, if something’s following him.

Jungkook shakes off the convulsive shudder that rattles its way through his shoulders. Stupid idea. If anything was following, it was someone. Thieves. Bandits.

Maybe the stillness is just his imagination. After all, this is the woods. Woods are supposed to be placid. Serene. Maybe he just misses the sounds of laughing men and people and the glare of candlelight. Besides, everything dies in the fall anyway, right? All the little crickets have chirped their last sometime back in early September.

Still, he can’t help feeling that there should be some sounds. Like a foraging squirrel. A startled rabbit or something.

Jungkook slows to a stop again, this time so he can catch his breath. He leans forward, clasping his knees, his own huffing all but reverberating in the silence. He glances over his shoulder at the darkening stretch of road behind, black like a ribbon of ink. He looks forward once more. He isn’t sure, but he thinks the exit to the narrow path lay straight ahead from where he stands right now. If he is right, he’d enter a clearing behind the walls of the kingdom and be back maybe even with a few seconds to spare.

But something else feels wrong now, and it isn’t just the stillness.

Since he has stopped running, the air around him has seemed to compress, to grow denser. He can’t explain it, but it feels as though the night itself, unnatural in its calmness, has begun to move in on him, to close in tight.

His nerves prickle. Along his neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end.

The idea of feeling being watched had always sort of struck Jungkook as being corny kind of way. Now, though, as he turns and looks around at all the black trees with their skeletal arms tangled in a silent fight for space, he can’t help the sudden feeling that, somewhere among them, something watches him, waiting for him to move again.

The birds are gone now. Which is weird, since he hadn’t heard them take off.

He listens.

Nothing but the silence grows, feeding on itself until it becomes a dull roar in his ears.

Jungkook continues on the path, though at a slower, quieter walk, and just when he starts to think that listening to the eerie nothing might be worse than actually hearing something, a hushing sound – a fast _whoosh_ – breaks through from the line of trees at her right.

Jungkook jumps and readies his dagger, an ice pick of hear stabbing his through the middle so that, for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Whatever it was had been big. As in person big.

“Who’s there?”

 _Skoooshh_!

Jungkook whirls. This sound had come from the trees directly across the road. It comes again from behind. He hears the pop of a branch and the crush of dry leaves. He spins in a circle, and despite the cascade of sudden noise, the rustling and crackling, he can’t sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.

He feels his throat constrict and his chest tighten. His heartbeat speeds to triple time. He turns and breaks once more into a run, taking the trail as hard and as fast as his legs would carry her. His palms, cold and sweaty, tighten around the grip of his dagger, and he feels his quiver of arrows pound against him.

Whatever it was in the woods, it follows him. Out of the corner of one eye, he thinks he sees the edge of a dark something. Then there’s another at his left. Figures, tall and long, rush through the black gate of trees on either side of him, their movements too fast. Impossibly fast.

As he speeds up, so do the dappled forms.

They seem to multiply as, out of his periphery, she spots yet another. This one glides away from the others to rush along the group of trees directly beside him.

It moves through the trees, through undergrowth, dashing over the dry ground – a rippling form. Jungkook risks a quick glance, head-on, but sees nothing, only blackness and tangled branches and stillness. But that was impossible!

“Go away!” he screams. He can’t outrun them, or whatever or whoever they were. He can’t gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a softball has begun to knot itself in her side. He blocks out the pain, pushing through.

Run. Run. _Run_!

“Run!” he hears someone hiss. A woman.

It had come from the line of trees beside him.

Jungkook tries to cry for help but can’t find the breath, able to only choke out a low sob. He can’t stop to scream, but he can’t keep going like this, either. He can’t breathe anymore. His lungs sting from the cold while his sides ache with stiffening pain.

Why hadn’t he just gone with someone? Why hadn’t he just –

The clearing!

Straight ahead. There! He can see it.

Dizziness wafts in around his temples, but he wouldn’t stop now. Somehow, he knew that if he could just clear the heap of fallen tree trunks, he would make it back. He’d be all right.

Reaching for a thick uprooted root of a tree, Jungkook clasps a hand to the wood and, as he vaults over, feels the stabbing reward of a thick splinter as it enters his palm. His feet hit the dust and dirt pathway beyond. He teeters forward from the weight of his sheath and slams to his knees. He picks himself up again, stumbling, scrambling, running even as his body begs him to stop.

The small pebbles at his feet rattle around him. Whispers and hisses. Someone laughs, but the sound morphs into a high-pitched shriek. He hears a splintering shatter, like a crash of plates.

He dares not turn around.

To his left and right familiar gatherings of trees zoom by, looking like interlocked hands trapping him. He tears past them, and even as the lights of the kingdom draws into view, he does not slow. He wills his body to keep moving in spite of his screaming muscles, the torturous ache in his lungs.

“ _Jungkoook_.”

The sound of his name whisks by his, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around his feet. He hears it, though. His name. Someone has whispered his name.

That, at last, stops him and brings him stuttering to a halt at the edge of the campground threshold. He wheels around, eyes scanning. He gasps for breath, sucking down air in huge gulps.

He peels off his bow and arrows and, mustering every bit of strength he has left, knocks and arrow at aims. It groans in protest as he pulls the string taught.

Whoever it was had said his name. That meant they knew him.

As though triggered by the flip of a switch, rage replaces his fear.

"Who's there?" he shouts, heaving. "Who is it? Why don't you just come out?"

He wipes his running nose with his sleeve, not caring.

" _Come on_!" he roars toward the gathering of oak trees. "I know you're there!" This he turns on a row of shrubs lining a cobblestone sidewalk.

“Come on you cowards! I’m right here! Come and face me! Wherever you are – _whoever_ you are –!" As he shouts, Jungkook spins in a circle so that his voice echoes all through the open land. So everyone, everything could hear him.

He turns and sees the silhouette of a woman. He could tell the woman is about his age, maybe older. Still with rage coursing, he turns and huffs to the woman. She stands at profile, decorated in all black, a cape billowing behind her. Jungkook takes a bold step closer, the arrow aimed right at the woman’s heart.

Slowly the woman turns her head to face Jungkook. Her skin porcelain white, deep blood-red lips. Her hands red with blood, and darkness rippling off of her like smoke of a fire.

Jungkook’s mouth goes dry as paper, and his stomach plummeted to the floor. The eyes depict brutality and a coldness that’s so familiar.

He whimpers to the gods, his fingers quaking to hold the arrow.

The woman raises a thin, abnormally long hand, the tips of which ended in long red talon-like claws. She waves at Jungkook. Her nails, more like the scarlet fangs from some deadly venomous snake, gleams in the light.

Jungkook recognized the belt of daggers, a sword strapped to her sides.

 _Gods no_ . . .

Jungkook freezes, his eyes locking on a jagged black hole that marked the side of the woman’s cheek, as though an entire chunk of her face had been knocked out, like a chink in a porcelain vase.

He can see straight through, to the hollow jaw and two rows of white dagger-like teeth within. Fear pulses through Jungkook’s veins and yet stood hypnotized. This woman is horrible and fascinating all at once, like a scorpion prepared to strike, all angles and sharp lines and menace.

In one blinking movement, the creature lunges at Jungkook, jaw unhinging, the black hole in her face widening. Teeth bared, claws outstretched, she unleashes an ungodly sound, something between a death screech and a demon's howl.

It happened too fast for Jungkook to form his own scream, too fast for his raised arms to do any good. The assassin’s claws rained down, her form loosened into violet smoke.

Jungkook coughs and the ground beneath his feet trembles, then shudders before opening up. Darkness swirls inside it like an in ground whirlpool. He falls backward. A shrieking torrent of jet scales engulf the light.

“ _You can’t hide from me_.”

The edges of his surroundings quiver, dirt and rock loosening until, at last, they break forth in a tidal surge.

Slowly Jungkook sinks into the ground like in quicksand. Earth pours over him in rushing waves from all sides. It falls against his body in heavy clods, a suffocating weight that fast becomes crushing.

“No!” he screams in a rustic tone.

He flails and thrashes, battling to loosen himself from the raining soil and ash that threatens to consume him. He fights to stand, causing the dirt to press more tightly around him. It claims his legs, trapping him. He reaches with both arms toward the open sky, but the earth gushes, building to his waist, to his chest. It piles past his shoulder, his head, and now reaches to consume his arms, swallowing the light one fragment at a time.

The packed dirt squeezes his chest, crushes his lungs. He can’t breathe.

Jungkook gasps involuntarily and is rewarded with a mouthful of course grime. He swallows and his body convulses at the acrid taste. His lungs burn for air. HIs heart knocks against his ribcage, begging for release.

Up above, he can see the assassin. Her face torn between helping her, or letting her die.

“Help! Please, help me!” Jungkook begs.

His ears roar, and a strange hum grows louder within his brain as his chest convulses and he coughs, sucking in a mouthful of dirt in exchange.

The grit burns his lungs, and he coughs again.

More dirt. More coughing. More pain.

And then it’s gone. The pain recedes. His chest relaxes.

Jungkook’s lungs stop demanding air.

* * *

It wakes him with a gasp, and he puts a hand to his throat, cold sweat sliding down his back and pooling in the hollow between his mouth and chin.

It has been years since he’s had that dream. And even now it still leaves him shaking, quivering like a leaf.

Nauseated, Jungkook wraps his arms around his knees. He breathes – in and out, in and out – and tilts his head, his kneecaps digging into his cheekbones. The light of a full moon pours into his chambers through the window. The capitol outside is illuminated in white, and it almost seems to pulse.

He imagines the whole world is asleep tonight, enchanted by the veil of the moon. He imagines faeries and nymphs coming out to play and to sing and dance in joyous, but mysterious tunes. Time comes and goes, mountains rising and falling, vines creeping over the slumbering city, concealing it with layers of thorns and leaves. And he is the only one awake.

Extending out a shaking hand, Jungkook feels the moon’s light ripple and form in his hands. Can feel it dancing through his fingers like smoke.

As he looks past the moon and at the curtain of stars dancing across the velvet backdrop, Jungkook can’t shake the uneasy feeling that they are staring back at him.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

Sitting in front of the blank fireplace, the sentences of his book start to blur. Jimin sits in a silk shirt with thin straps and a simple pair of shorts on. The heat is getting the best of him, but as long as his parents don’t come barging in unannounced, the servants and Yoongi-hyung should be able to deal with it. His hyung currently gone to retrieve some papers from his rooms.

The events from yesterday are still fresh in his mind, and kept him up most of the night, even after he and Yoongi-hyung returned from the marketplace, sneaking in through the servants’ passageways to avoid many eyes. One look on his hyung’s face kept the servants quiet, unless they wanted to end up on the streets.

Though he is the Crown Prince, he still finds it, appropriate to use honorifics with his captain. Others might tease him for it, even Yoongi, but Jimin just retorts that he is the prince and can address his captain, his friend, as he likes.

Yoongi-hyung didn’t say much when they returned to the castle, of course he did unleash a bombardment of words to Jimin for not taking his safety into consideration once they reached the privacy of his chambers. They were lucky enough to get away from the Huntsmen alive, he said. Very few can encounter any one of them and live to tell it.

After a thorough onslaught of words, Yoongi-hyung simply sighed, ran his fingers through his hair and petted Jimin’s head. He then left, Jimin taking the time to peel off his clothes and take a bath. Afterwards, he lit the fire long enough to toss his clothes into the flames, and blow it with the bellows until the flames consumed every last line of fabric.

Now, in the fresh afternoon light, the windows pried wide open to allow fresh air, he passes his time with reading, constantly looking at the clock to see when the castle’s pool will be ready. Any other activities would be unwise. The horses would get overheated, he doesn’t quite feel like training if he can’t do it without his shirt, and he doesn’t want to go shopping again unless those mercenaries were part of a much bigger gang.

There’s a knock on his door, and Jimin gets up, grabbing a silk robe before going to the doors. He finds Yoongi-hyung, a small stack of papers in his arm. Jimin only smiles and allows him in. He raises a brow at Jimin’s exposed chest, but the prince only shrugs with a smile.

“I honestly don’t understand how you can sit inside all day, even in whether like this.” Jimin says as he follows his hyung.

Yoongi-hyung sets the papers atop the table in front of the couch, and plops onto the floor, sighing. “There’s a difference between will, and obligation. You of all people should know the difference.”

Jimin simply gives another smile as he joins his friend, sitting on the other end of the couch as Yoongi-hyung tilts his head back. He picks his book back up when Yoongi-hyung speaks, “The bodies were discovered.”

He stills for a moment and looks to the captain. “And?”

“People assumed they died choking on their own vomit. Apparently the rats didn’t waste their time, so proper injuries couldn’t be identified in the examination.”

Jimin doesn’t hide his disgust. He rests his head against his knuckles, elbow on the arm of the couch as he adjusts the book in his lap. He doesn’t even remember where he left off, and he doubts he’ll be able to focus. His captain has made himself comfortable, with his back to the couch, his glass pen winks in the sunlight as he scribbles and signs documents.

Looking all around his room, Jimin tries to find means to _do_ something. Sitting around is driving him crazy if the pool isn’t going to be ready for another hour.

His chambers offer a dining room, billiards room and a sun parlor. Removing his robe, Jimin gets up and walks to each room. Of course, he grabs a pair of shorts to be decent for his hyung.

His dining table is currently bare, safe for the vase of flowers acting as its centerpiece. The gleaming mahogany is smooth to the touch, and Jimin walks over to the console to pour himself a glass of fresh water. The pitcher itself has been put in a bucket of ice; the prince ever grateful for something cold.

Making his way to the billiards room, the large green table sits with its balls all neatly set inside the triangle, the cues lined neatly along the wall. The room is unnecessarily spacious with scatterings of chairs and couches and several tapestries along the walls, intermixing with paintings.

Sighing to himself, the prince grabs a cue. Yoongi-hyung is still scribbling on papers when Jimin rolls the cue to his friend’s side. He looks to the que, and then to Jimin. The prince only smiles as he leans on his and says, “I want to play a game.”

His hyung must’ve been as eager to do something other than work in a silence, because he easily sets aside his papers and picks up the cue. He only smiles to Jimin as he follows the prince into the room.

“I’m solids, you’ll be stripes.” Yoongi-hyung states. Jimin merely shrugging his shoulders.

Without much conversation, Jimin racks the balls before carefully lifting the triangle. Jimin readies his cue with chalk while his hyung takes the first shot. He aims at the white, and then skillfully launches. The balls crack loudly against one another and scatter like ants. Each one a fair distance from each other, and Jimin observes his options.

He and Yoongi-hyung walk around the table trying to find the appropriate position to shoot next. As his hyung readies his cue with chalk, Jimin takes aim at the white ball. Balancing the cue atop the knuckles of his finger. He shoots and it collides with another crack, sending the orange striped ball into a corner pocket.

Smirking, he watches Yoongi-hyung observe and calculate before he walks by the corner and aims. He doesn’t say much about Jimin being so exposed, but they’ve been friends long enough to know that he can’t stop Jimin when from doing something. Instead, he can only advise.

Yoongi-hyung shoots and the white ball collides with a striped ball, but then it collides with a blue and yellow solid ball and each go into a middle and corner pocket. He grins to Jimin, of which the prince just thumps the end of his cue against the plush carpet.

As he rounds the table, looking for a good angle his next shot, he wishes there was some music. Though he doesn’t have a music room, he wouldn’t mind walking down to the chamber with Yoongi-hyung just to hear him play. When they were younger, Jimin would always adore hearing him play, as did his parents. Sometimes he would sit for hours, Yoongi-hyung playing every song he knew, or until he whined at Jimin how his hands were going to bleed and fall off if he kept playing.

Jimin finds his angle and aims, before he shoots, he asks, “What do you know about the Huntsmen?”

Yoongi-hyung looks to him, his features schooled into neutrality, a trait that Jimin despises because he could never know of anything surprised him or not. Or if anything ever interested him at all. But he says, “Rumors mostly here and there.”

Jimin bites back his annoyance at Yoongi-hyung’s bland answers. “And what about their ‘king?’ Kim Namjoon?” he continues. His ball bursts forward and collides with a purple stripe now, and falls into the middle pocket.

“Why are you asking these questions, exactly? He and his little minion save you like a damsel and suddenly you’re in love?”

“Absolutely not!” Jimin counters, his cheeks flaring red. He tries to ignore the raise of the eyebrow his hyung gives as he rounds the table to try and get away. “It’s just a curiosity.”

“One that could end up getting you in trouble . . . again. And this time, maybe even killed.”

Jimin steps back while Yoongi-hyung stands at the side of the table and takes aim, his forefinger holding the cue while it balances on the rest of his knuckles.

“I just want answers. I am prince you know.” His hyung looks to him with another raise of his brow. Jimin only smiles slyly, but chuckles to ease the tension.

Yoongi-hyung sighs and resumes his aim. “Anything I’ve heard, it’s mostly rumors here and there.” He repeats. “Despite his reputation, the man seems to keep details of his life locked up tighter than a vise.” His cue shoots and the white ball collides with another solid, but this time the ball stops at the lip of the hole. He sighs and chalks his cue as he says, “They say he’s beautiful as sin – and colder as ice. They say he’s a tyrant, a coward, a whore. They say he’s gods-blessed – or gods-damned. Who knows? Many whisper on how he’s shadowed by Gameunjang-agi.”

“The Goddess of Luck?” Jimin whispers.

“As she would have it, the man is never one caught, and no one is even sure what he looks like. Just that he’s a man, and an elusive one at that.” His cue jerks forward and the white ball knocks a green solid into the pocket.

Jimin rounds to the white ball. “The man would be an interesting candidate for my father’s Champion.”

Yoongi-hyung’s silence is the only indication of his surprise. “How did you know about that?”

The prince only offers a sly smile. “I sometimes pay attention to what you’re reading during those council meetings.” He lines up his cue and shoots, the white ball hits a green stripe and continues to a red and yellow. All three scatter into three different pockets. “I knew my father wanted a, champion for some time, but I always thought the idea was, folly.”

“How so?”

“I just didn’t think my father was the kind of man to need a royal assassin.” He says with a shrug.

“He – or she – won’t be an assassin, per say . . .” his hyung drawls.

Jimin frowns. “But he or she will still be killing people.”

“For the good of your father and this kingdom. Soldiers kill all the time, and it’s the reason why we are able to eat and drink cleanly.”

Jimin only offers a huff of disagreement. “How exactly does my father plan to pick a new ‘champion?’”

His hyung takes aim. “He’s having each member of the court pick a person they feel suitable.”

“He’s going to choose between twenty-five people?!”

“Which includes you, prince.” Yoongi-hyung takes his shot, the crack of the ball seemingly louder than normal.

“Me?”

“He wants you to choose as well. He wants your decision in a week.”

“I don’t know who to pick. Unfortunately, I barley know some of the guards here.”

“He didn’t give specifics, just pick someone whom you believe is worth being your father’s champion. And no, they cannot have a criminal background.” Yoongi-hyung clarifies.

Jimin grips the tip of his cue and leans on it. “So I’m just picking a member among the guard?”

“Guard, or some of the councilmen are picking among soldiers. It would obviously mean a lot to them, not to mention they might actually work harder. And it’s not all as bad as you’re thinking it is.” He assures. “They will be the personal bodyguard of the royal family, they’ll be the first person to go through when seeing visitors and, yes, sometimes sent to deal with the rabble.”

“Seems like an awful lot of responsibility.” Jimin mumbles. “What if some of the guards aren’t ready?”

Yoongi-hyung turns and leans against the pool table, cue resting beside him. “They wouldn’t volunteer if they were ready. We have a list of applications; I could bring some for you to take a look. I know every person here and I can give detailed descriptions on personality and work ethic.”

“Perhaps. And thank you.”

He picks up his cue and walks around to the white ball. It has been pushed into a far corner, and to Jimin’s surprise, he is winning. Either his hyung is letting him win, or he’s been so occupied that he just got lucky. He kind of hopes it’s the second one.

“What will happen if I don’t pick someone?” he asks.

“Then don’t complain if you don’t like the next champion.”

Jimin almost chuckles, his chest compressing to make the sound, but it merely sounds like a huff of breath. The white ball is actually in perfect line with a blue-striped, but blocked by the eight ball. Aiming at the white ball, he adjusts the grip of his hand and gives a sly grin.

He draws back and hits the ball, and to Yoongi-hyung’s surprise, the ball hopes over the eight ball and bounces once before rolling into the blue stripe, sending it teetering over into the middle pocket.

Yoongi-hyung offers a raise of his brows; the only indication of impressiveness and surprise he offers as he nods and walks around to take his turn. “I’ll bring the papers to you tomorrow.” He says, narrowing on eye to observe.

“Very well.” Jimin sighs.

“I kind of feel sorry for you. Everyone knows you’re participating in it, so don’t be surprised if the guards are more . . . friendly towards you.”

That makes the prince smile, even tugs the giggle out of him. While Yoongi-hyung finds his next spot to aim – and how to upstage Jimin with his billiards tricks – the prince looks to his windows. Outside he can see the vast expanse of the kingdom, see the brown-tiled roofs blind him from their reflections.

Somewhere out there, the King of the Underworld and his protégé are hunting for the unfortunate. Too bad that they can’t allow any criminals or assassin, but it’s for obvious reasons.

Still, either one would’ve made an, interesting, champion to say the least.

More importantly, it would’ve been nice to have something pleasant to look at during those bring council meetings.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

Min Yoongi scans the crowd of faces, their form, looking for anyone – or anything – suspicious. He is currently by the towering balcony doors, leaning against the pillar, arms crossed – not hiding in the shadows like he’s supposed to be. His back feels blessed with each cool breeze coming in from the night air, and the moonlight glints off the hilt of one of the many daggers he wears at his side. His duel swords seem to glow like embers in the light as well.

Tonight it merely a night to gather the visiting dignitaries and relax from the usual stuffy council meetings filled with dreaded topics. With the doors propped open, the room is filled with a gods-blessed chill of a cool summer night.

The Grand Ballroom is white as snow tonight, and decorated in pastels, opened large and wide around the rectangular dance floor filled with revolving dancers. Gilt details chase the curved walls and net the domed ceiling far above. Swaths of silk in hues of white and glacier blue float from the ceiling and ornate glass baubles hang between. The whole room glistens and sparkles like the inside of a Fabergé egg.

Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sit huddled in one corner. They play their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insects they represent. The rhythm they keep is a steady on-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turn like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

Powdered and pale, the women look like stale pastries. Tall and with garish, pointed ears, the men seem like predators. Yoongi was surprised at how many Elven men and women had arrived; looking so mortal with their enormous yards of fabric they call dresses and jackets that square the shoulders with multiple medals and sashes crossing their chests.

The king sits on his throne, looking powerful and regal in his red and gold jacket, a fur-lined cape draping out onto the floor. The Queen is at his side, speaking with a visiting dignitary.

Honestly, even those seem more comfortable than the armored suit he currently wears.

Hours before the ball, His Majesty had come to Yoongi informing that his new suit of armor is ready. And when he had seen it, he was . . . surprised. What seemed like a simple modification, they had entirely transformed it changing the colors and adding pieces of actual armor, not like the light leather Yoongi is so used to. Steel blue armor tucked within black leather. The thing must weigh forty pounds.

Currently dressed in the suit, feeling more like an assassin than a captain, his new armor looks like leather but without the sheen – and can conceal a multitude of daggers at his ribs. There are two more built into the toe of his boots; one push and a small but sharp blade points out, delivering a killing blow through a kick.

A cape of royal blue is clasped to his outfit. It drapes past his feet, swooping to the side in an elegant manor, as if he is posing for a portrait. With extra padding over his vital organs and reinforcements on his knees and shoulders, Yoongi tries to ignore the glances he gets from several guests.

In his current position, he can see almost every detail, right down to the pearl beading on a woman’s gown, and smell everything – from the exquisite banquet that no one is touching and even to the smell of the guests. Perfume and cologne, as well the stench of their fear whenever the guards move is distracting, and makes him dizzy in the head. And his ears pick up each sound of a clicking show, to the tickle of silverware, to the blood pulsing in the necks of the guests.

Across the room, he catches another guard tucked into an alcove near a servant’s entrance. There he can keep an eye on the glittering ball in front of him, as well as the prince.

Other members of the guard are scattered about the ballroom, the majority hidden within the limited shadows; as they had been trained since infancy to blend into any silver of darkness and listen – and they are nowhere to be seen in this hall.

A feeling draws Yoongi’s attention to look to his right and he finds another member emerge from his spot, look to him, and nod. Time to rotate.

They’ve been keeping this pattern going since the party started . . . five hours ago. They would rotate every hour to observe the guests, and each time, Yoongi could see some of the guests stiffen and look, as if waiting for something to happen. And when they would resume their new positions, the guests would relax and continue about.

He couldn’t tell if they were nervous because they were scared something was going to happen, or if because they were nervous of getting caught if they were conspiring.

As they rotate, Yoongi turns his head and a tingle of joy spreads up his spine when he sees himself wandering towards the long buffet tables, covered with so much food that edges of some of the plates are hovering over.

He turns his head back towards the crowd, people are scattered through the floor dressed like peacocks and jesters, demons and queens. There are feathered dresses and silk suits, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks.

He passes a young woman decked in white ostrich feathers and diamonds as she lies sprawled on a divan. Her ivory slipper hanging from one toe, a glass of wine in each hand, she laughs hysterically as a tiny man in a green and yellow jester’s costume takes one false fall after another.

As he passes a few young women with dresses donned in ruffles and they flutter themselves with their lace fans, batting their eyelashes and giggling coyly. Yoongi merely passes them by giving a terse nod of acknowledgement.

His attention is on the food. The scent of cinnamon, freshly baked bread, and spiced meat seeped through his helmet, causing his stomach to clench. Tureens are overflowing with fruit and are arranged in bouquets, plates of fowl ranging from turkeys, to chickens, to ducks, to larger species he doesn’t even know. The smell of their gravy makes his mouth flood with saliva, and they are each sprinkled with spices, lemon juice and finished with little tuffs on the ends of their legs. Trays of ocean creatures sit fried or grilled with little cups of dipping concoctions in front of them; Yoongi taking a piece of fried calamari and dunking it into a marinara sauce as red as blood.

His mouth explodes in a flavor that almost makes him groan, and leaves behind a hot aftertaste. The next table is all about salads with fresh greens and vegetables and several dressings lined perfectly.

Of course there are over eight thousand plates, and almost all of them have barely been touched.

And then the table after that is home to the desserts. Gods – cakes and cookies, cupcakes and pies all flavoring from chocolate to fruit, drizzled with sauces of caramel, chocolate, berries and topped with powdered sugar and whipped cream. Silver platters hold piles of candy and pastries stuffed with jam or cream. The frostings range from pink to blue and green and purple, designed in flowers and hearts and elegantly traced. The sweet odor draws him away from the other tables.

There are only a few slices missing from the cakes, only a couple cupcakes were taken, and only small pickings of the candy. And there he finds his favorite: hazelnut truffles. And they look exquisite. Perfectly colored down with their tips dipped in the thick caramel sauce. Popping another in his mouth, Yoongi moans as his taste buds are sent to a sugary wonderland.

“You better hope your teeth don’t turn red.” A voice says behind him. Yoongi stiffens and whirls around to find Jimin with a smile on his face and sweat on his forehead.

He looks handsome today with a black jacket and the embroidered gold gryphon on his chest. It is in the way his hair meets his ecru skin – in the tiny gaps between the strands, in the way it falls across his brow. Easily the most stunning man in the ballroom, and Yoongi didn’t fail to notice how many women – and men – had been watching the prince all night.

He had been dancing endlessly with the women tonight, one after another after another. When one dance ended, another woman is already there, bowing and asking for her turn. Yoongi himself would’ve just groaned, but Jimin only smiles brightly and takes them into dance after dance.

“You had better hope that no one yells at you for abandoning your guests.” Yoongi says as he finishes chewing and swallowing the truffle.

Jimin chuckles. “As to you, Yoongi-hyung. You better hope no one notices you gone from your post.”

The captain rolls his eyes as he sucks the remnants off his thumb and turns to pour himself some of the glittering cider in the large crystal bowl with intricate snowflakes carved in itself. “I did not abandon my post. It just so happens that my post was right next to the banquet tables.”

“Right.” Jimin laughs as he helps himself to a skewer of fruits. He pulls off a strawberry and tosses it into his mouth. The two of them turn back to the crowd to observe. He then says, “So, how’re things going for guard duty?”

“I’m bored to tears and nearly dead with the cold breeze coming in through the doors.”

Jimin shoulders bounce and he covers his mouth to finish chewing before laughing. “You’re the Captain of the royal Guard, and yet you can’t stand watch for a few hours?”

“What’s there to watch?” Yoongi hisses. “Couples sneaking out to fondle each other between the hedges? Or every giggling maiden wanting to dance with me?”

“Not like you don’t adore the attention.”

Yoongi barks a laugh. “No! Gods, no. I’d be thrilled if they just kept their attention on you.”

“Oh thank you for the support.” Jimin says almost sadly. “I’m just ruffling your feathers.”

They stand in silence, Yoongi about to tell Jimin he should get back to the guests, when the prince clears his throat. “I must say that armor makes you look so much more intimidating than your usual outfits of black.”

“Uh, the thing weighs more than me! I can barely walk without feeling like I’m going to keel over.” Yoongi replies. The prince laughs.

“How goes your studies?” he asks.

Jimin bites on the words for a moment, blinking a couple times before answering. “They are . . . tolerable. My slobbery-nosed tutor couldn’t teach a dog how to bark.” Yoongi snorts. “I swear it! Hyung, he is teaching me the basics of Busan when I learned them in my toddler years! And no matter how much I insist, he merely shakes his head, claiming my knowledge needs more detail.”

“Maybe because you keep doodling on your paper.” Yoongi chuckles through his grin. Jimin smacks his arm. Yoongi merely chuckles more and asks, “Why would they give you a tutor who won’t listen to the Crown Prince?”

Jimin plucks a champagne flute form the table and takes a sip. “Because my parents are hopeless when it comes to matters of common sense. That and it would take weeks for a translator of the other kingdoms to come here; at least, one who was brave enough to come.”

While Yoongi could listen to Jimin rant about the people of Busan for hours, they are in a ballroom – other people are listening to their lengthy conversation, even if they can’t understand it.

“Why would people be afraid of Gyeongsan?” Yoongi asks, his voice more quiet.

“It’s not the continent they fear, merely its inhabitants.” Jimin says. He then turns to the table of desserts and extends out a graceful hand to take a yellow-cream custard toppled with seasonal berries; a Busan delicacy.

Yoongi turns his feet, following the prince and folding his arms. His back now to crowd, but he can sense the piercing gazes of onlookers. “You mean, the Elves?”

Jimin looks to him and a smirk. “No, the gnomes and trolls.” He would’ve smacked the prince’s arm, but he doesn’t need the guests panicking and having the king and queen eye him with shock. Or even just pierce an arrow in his throat. “It’s not just the elves, but many people are afraid to travel our roads in fear of the angels. The reports are getting worse, and it’s really starting to concern my parents.”

Yoongi swallows thickly. He had gotten the reports and transferred them to the king, but he didn’t bring it up in the meetings in order to keep the council from panicking. Still, it’s having an effect on their travelers and trading regions.

Because the thought of having angels becoming a threat again . . .

“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for them: to fly with the wind in their hair, and I can’t imagine trying to sit, and don’t even get me started on trying to shop. Gosh, they must have things custom made. They must feel so _free_.”

“You said they had feared them, yet you express admiration for our enslavers.” Yoongi reiterates, keeping their conversation quiet. He plucks a chocolate frosting flower and lifts the screen to his helmet. He gulps the entire in one inhale and sets the screen back down.

“Not like the ‘normal’ kind of fear.” Jimin rephrases. “Merely, intimidation.”

“It’s enough to stop travelers, and if it spreads any further, I’d hate to think of what could happen to our trades with other kingdoms.”

“Perhaps if we had the Dragon Riders living with us it would be more encouraging, but ever since the war ended, they just, disappeared. Vanished off the face of the earth until they are nothing more than legends. Even you know for a fact that these, males, are impressive beyond any mortal standards. Which is why I am surprised to know we were blessed enough to ally with one of the most feared aerial calvarias of Korea’s history.”

“The Dragon Riders were impressive, I won’t deny. But they can’t be the best.”

Jimin chuckles, causing Yoongi’s cheeks to warm. “How do you know of their history, yet so naive about their reputation?” He pats Yoongi’s armored shoulder.

“I consider it being humble.”

Jimin chuckles some more. “I always wondered what happened to them. I mean it’s not like you can hide a dragon so easily. They are massive creatures.” Yoongi shrugs. “Were they hunted into extinction as well?”

“That’s a bit of a stretch.” Yoongi says, his voice laced with doubt. “They were the most powerful and feared organization. They weren’t know for mistakes . . . or mercy.”

Jimin folds in his lips, sucking on a tooth. “Even so, it keeps tutors from coming out.”

Yoongi is about to retort when he spots a guard walking towards his spot. The others following him, “Time to rotate.” He whispers to the prince.

Has it been an hour already? Jimin nods and sighs as he starts to walk to his next position of the ballroom. Jimin finishes another pastry before quickening his steps to follow.

Once he reaches his new position – this time under the alcove cast in shadows – he turns and leans against the marble pillar, folds his arms and sighs. Jimin keep close, his voice hushed.

“So, have you spoken to my father about it?” Jimin asks.

At the mention of the king, Yoongi turns his head. But the king merely keeps his eyes focused on the crowd. Yoongi sighs. “I know His Majesty means well, and I know he has his duties, but I feel as though he is brushing me off. Granted he is a kind man and he listens to me in council meetings. But whenever I wish to have a private audience with him, I am denied.”

“I apologize. It’s surprising he hasn’t seen you, you’re his captain. Have you tried speaking to my mother?”

“No. I don’t want to concern her with such matters. I give your father credit though, Jimin. I would normally cringe, yet he keeps smiling brightly and accepts each word they wish to speak with him.”

Yoongi glance around them. Ladies are eagerly watching from behind their fans, and even the Queen has noticed their lengthy conversation.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jimin says, a flash of guilt spreading across his smooth features. He could probably get him an audience with his father easily at their next meeting.

A clock tower chimes in the distance.

“Well I’ve bothered you long enough. Hopefully I’ll see you before the end of the night.”

“As long as you’re here, so shall I.” Yoongi smiles.

With that, the prince leaves, the partygoers making a path before his wake is swallowed by the skirts of gowns.

* * *

Five more hours pass by, though it smears in blurs of music and the smell of food. The stars seem extra bright tonight as Yoongi gazes out of the balcony doors.

Yoongi doesn’t know how long the guests have been dancing with the youths, bathing in the company of flowers – but it only feels like seconds when he hears a bloodcurdling scream.

A chill runs down his spine. The crowd parts. Women scream.

He turns to find Jimin on the floor, blood trickling down his beautiful jacket, and arrow in his chest.

Two of his men are already there with Jimin, holding the prince’s shoulders as they try to lift him to his feet. He cries in agony and pain, his cheeks raw smearing and his blood permeating his jacket and the thighs of his pants. Yoongi’s heart sinks.

The arrow missed his heart by mere inches . . .

There’s a whistle in the air.

Without thinking, Yoongi sprints to standing in front of the prince. He’s whacks another arrow aimed for Jimin’s head with his sword. The arrow whirls through the air and whizzes past Yoongi’s ear sticking to the back wall.

Immediately Yoongi sends another dagger flying straight and a black shadow leaps off the architrave diving for the crowd. People scream and scatter as the assassin hops across two of heads of the guests before landing in the middle of a circle of guards.

The first guard she spins kicks and knocks him out instantly. As another guard tries to even pull his sword the assassin grabs him by the forearm and throws him over and to the ground.

He sees the ebony of the cloak, and darkness of shadows rippling off of her like smoke of a fire.

She leaps over the body, her leg jerking and sending a crest of daggers through the air, Yoongi brings up his arms, blocking his face. The arrows ricochet off, the fabric of his sleeves ripping to reveal the enchanted vambraces given to him by the castle’s mage.

“Get everyone out of here!” Yoongi screams.

Two men take Jimin by her arms, while the rest of the guards hurry the guests out of the ballroom. Jimin is hollering at them to _Stop_ , but his cries soon grow distant. It also clarifies to Yoongi that he’ll be alright. Hopefully.

Another guard grabs the assassin from behind and as two more run towards her, she kicks her legs to the side, nailing both in the chest before wrenching herself free and spin kicking the guard holding her. When all are down, she draws two serrated daggers sprints towards the direction of Yoongi and the fleeting prince.

“No!” Yoongi snarls. He throws a dagger and the assassin brings up her sword to block it at the last minute.

In a flash the assassin is upon him and slashing her two daggers. Yoongi brings up his arm against to block the blow. The impact sends him stepping back to his own surprise. She’s strong. What organization could she be from? The Huntsmen?

The assassin continues to lash her arms out at Yoongi, quick and precise like striking vipers. He continuously blocks with his vambraces, sparks flying. She’s fast; fast enough that he can’t risk reaching down to grab his own daggers.

Thankfully as she’s about to strike again, he ducks and strikes her in the side, kicking her away. The assassin rolls but she is on her feet in an instant, not dropping her weapons. She sprints towards them again and Yoongi readies with his bare hands, sheathing his sword at his side.

The two collide and he blocks all of her attacks as she tries to strike. His hand aches to launch a blade straight into the assassin’s heart, but something seems . . . off. But he also needs information from her.

He manages to disarm the assassin and she tries to retaliate by kicking out his feet. Yoongi side steps and drives his fist into her nose.

Her form is off. It’s sloppy.

She tries to throw punch after punch, but he dodges with maddening ease. He moves with a steadied, practice, expert grace and she – she’s almost below a level novice. Perhaps her shot at the prince was just laced with luck.

But why send someone who’s so . . .?

“Captain!”

Refocusing his mind, her foot meets its mark in his stomach, the pain reaching back to his spine. Yoongi tumbles across the floor, sliding until he hits one of the many thick columns in the garden.

He opens his eyes to find the assassin thrusting her dagger towards him. Yoongi ducks and rolls out of the way, kicking out her feet. The assassin moves with the fall, rolling along her side towards him, then spinning herself up. Her foot nails him in the jaw.

He grunts in pain, rolling along the floor and on his feet again. The assassin is there, and he can’t help but grin despite the blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. As she goes to punch him again, he ducks and kicks her in the right side. Then he elbows her in the left before and striking hard with an uppercut. She grunts in pain, but when Yoongi grabs her by the neck, ready to pound her into the ground, her hand grips his forearm and suddenly he feels lighting shoot up his arm.

Yoongi screams, and his grip immediately loosens, his muscles stiffening. He stumbles back, waiting for the shock, for the tingling, for the pounding in his head to stop, but once the lightning stops, he feels a punch left and right, then right and left. The air leaves his lungs as the assassin rams her knee into his sternum, nausea clenching his stomach.

Yoongi falls to the ground, grunting and the world spinning at dizzying speeds. It doesn’t help either when he has to swiftly roll to avoid the blade of a sword embedding into his long red cape. He struggles for a moment, reducing to cutting off the cape with his dagger before another sword sticks into the piece that was just connected to his shoulder.

Pushing himself up on his hands and knees, Yoongi looks up and another kick to his face sends him tumbling like a pebble across water. He stops, banging his head against – something. He can’t tell now.

Pebbles trickle down the side of his neck, then down across his cheek and down his neck. The column. He crashed into the column.

Gods, his world is spinning. It’s like things are moving too fast for him to catch up. He can’t get his eyes to focus, his motor control is shit and his head is pounding.

He ducks and rolls out of the way as her kick dents and chips the column. Pushing to his feet, he spits out a mouthful of blood. He brings his fists up and assesses the assassin as best he can.

Yoongi purposely takes steps forward as he throws punch after successful punch, herding the assassin back away from doors where Jimin had flee.

He dodges all of her moves easily, even with his pounding head. How someone so disgraceful is an assassin is beyond the boggles of the mind? How did she nail that shot at Jimin? Anger fueling him as he nails her left and right, left and right, Yoongi takes deep breaths to still his head.

He blocks her dagger and then rams his knee into her stomach. The assassin grunts and as she’s doubled over, Yoongi brings his elbow forward before slamming it into the back of her neck. She falls to the ground, slump.

Yoongi, his face stern and serious, binds the assassin’s wrists before approaching his men. “Hmm, not much a scene you left. I’m surprised.” one says, referring to the ballroom staying in one piece. It would’ve been funny had Yoongi at least chuckled. But there’s nothing to laugh about.

“How’s the prince?” he asks.

“They’re leading through the gardens now. They removed the arrow and his wound is already starting to clot. We think he’ll be fine, but it’s always better to have a healer look at it.” a guard affirms.

“Something isn’t right.” Yoongi says. He turns to the assassin unconscious on the floor “She seemed too easy.”

“I could see it.” Says another guard. “Such poor form and discipline, it’s a wonder how she nailed that shot.”

“But why would anyone send her? What is that like her initiation?” One guard starts but the other interjects.

“Maybe she was a reject from the Huntsmen.”

“No.” Another denies. “The Huntsmen have no quarrel with the royal family. They never have. True His Majesty has been trying to root them out, but he’s never successful. Plus, with the way they train, they don’t accept just anyone.”

Yoongi’s heart sinks and he can feel his skin grow numb. Everything seems to freeze.

“Possibly, but still with the way Yoongi-hyung easily dealt with her –”

Everything is slipping away, and suddenly Jimin feels so far away. Yoongi’s hands feel far away, his mind, his control . . .

The quick pace of footsteps echoes through the ballroom. Heads turn to find the doors are open, letting in the cold breeze of the outside.

“Yoongi!”

The captain hurtles through the castle hallways and into the secret tunnels that were built into the castle. They were used to evacuate the royalty in case of any invasion that overthrew them, but now he’s using it to get to Jimin before . . .

Before –

He shakes his head, discarding the cloak as he goes. That woman had merely been a pawn.

A distraction.

The real threat is following Jimin right now.

* * *

Jimin keeps his hand pressed to his chest like instructed, trying to control his breathing as he follows the guards through the tunnels leading towards the garden. Supported by the two guards two dragged him out of the ballroom, he’s much better than when the arrow hit him, but his shoulder is still throbs with an aching pain.

Squinting, he detects a curtain of green vines hanging over the archway in a spilling cascade. Flowers dot the vines, their heavy heads lolling sleepily amid waxy green foliage. With a gasp, Jimin wills strength into his feet. He mounts the dust-coated stairs and to the doorway.

The third guard walks ahead of the two flanking Jimin and pushes aside the curtain of the vines with one hand. Jimin passes through the archway and into a circular room. Countless crimson buds climb the iron-gate perimeters, their interlacing boughs and vines thick enough to form a living wall between the interior of the room and whatever lies without.

The vines and flowers commandeer the domed ceiling as well, though Jimin thinks he could detect the mesh of black tree limbs and the hint of violet light through one of the thinner sections.

Gazing upward, Jimin thinks there must be thousands of the flowers, maybe even hundreds of thousands – every bud the same deep bloodred hue. In addition to the climbing roses, long-stemmed roses grow along the base of the trellised wall, their blooms blending in with all the others.

Their overpowering fragrance, like the smell from a shattered bottle of perfume, fills his nostrils with every breath, making him light-headed. A carpet of ruby petals covers the circular marble floor, while several open archways line the curved wall, all of them leading out into the rose-lined tunnels.

“We made it.” he breathes.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” one guard asks.

Jimin nods, controlling his breathing. “I just need to catch my breath.”

They lead him over to a bench where they let him sit. The three guards draw their swords and look all around the garden for trouble. Jimin keeps his hand pressed to his shoulder, and after another heartbeat, he withdraws it, swallowing thickly at the faint bloodstain on the heel of his palm. Its already bleeding through the bandages, and it hurts like hell. They need to get him to the healer, quickly.

Jimin rises from the bench, the guards flinching and turning towards him. The first one to reach him has a helmet on, but his eyes break through as he helps the prince.

“Here, Your Highness, let me help.”

Jimin hisses in pain as the guard grips his wounded shoulder.

But then he wails after hearing the crack and feeling the pain of his shoulder being dislocated.

The two guards immediately charge for the man, but before Jimin can utter a cry of warning, the man already has his daggers drawn and slices their throats from ear to ear. He then drives the blade home into their sternums, twisting and yanking so their intestines spill before them.

Jimin falls to his knees. He wants to scream, but when the man turns to face him, his voice shrivels and guts.

A crawling fear causes his heart to leap into his throat as the man removes his helmet.

His beauty is unfathomable.

His skin is white as porcelain, and his hair is deep black to blue-violet. It spikes up from his skull like the feathered crest of a bird. His teeth, pointed like the tips of countless sharpened pencils, gleam an unsettling indigo. An onyx torque surrounds his strong column of a neck, but his eyes . . . black like an abyss. Soulless like the dead.

He wears a sleeveless jacket, which reveals the most unusual thing about him.

Scrolling designs cover much of his exposed skin. His chest, sculpted and smooth like a polished statue, depicts minutely detailed tattoos of sailing ships, tossing waves, and foam. A long-haired mermaid graces his exquisite shoulder, her scaly tail sweeping the length of his arm.

An entire portion of the sea epic vanishes into his side, and though the pictures themselves might have been beautiful, Jimin is too distracted by the fact that they have been chiseled into his skin like carvings.

That thought, combined with his demonic grin, the garish white of him, and the jagged nature of his teeth, makes them somehow vulgar.

“Who are you?” Jimin asks.

“Not who,” – he wags a blue-clawed finger at him – “what.”

“Fine,” Jimin obliges, “what?”

“Baffled,” he replies, “at how you, fetching though you are, could _possibly_ be the heir to the almighty King of Gyeongsan.”

Jimin rises to his feet, eyeing the man warily.

“If I had known about your beauty,” he continues. “I would’ve spared my time.”

Another chill runs up Jimin’s spine. Still distracted by his engravings, he can only ask, “What’s your name?”

“My name, isn’t it obvious?” the man questions. “Scrimshaw, Your Highness.” He draws out his name, the voice low and grating and gives an exaggerated bow.

“What do you want?” Jimin presses, taking a small step away.

The assassin who calls himself Scrimshaw, his shoulder’s slouch, and he pouts his lips. “You really aren’t quite the bright one, are you?” He replies.

Jimin takes another step away, biting back his remark. Grinning at Jimin, showing a mouth full of spiked teeth the color of blue quartz, Scrimshaw says, “I want to kill you.”

Jimin gulps.

“So tell me, what I am to do now,” Scrimshaw says, tilting his head at Jimin with a quick twitching movement. He blinks, his enormous black eyes closing tightly, then reopening again slowly.

Jimin staggers back from him. His mouth falls open, and though he tries to speak, no words come. His throat is too tight, constrict with sudden terror.

Scrimshaw takes a step towards him and then another, his black boots crushing velvet petals.

“Maybe,” he says, “since your esteemed captain won’t be joining me after all . . . you would like to play instead.”

“St-stay away,” Jimin stammers, holding his shoulder. He risks a glance to his left, searching for the nearest archway, his closest escape. When he looks back, though, he jumps to find Scrimshaw standing right in front of him.

Before he can utter so much as a yelp of surprise, a single indigo claw shoots out like the knife of a switchblade, the tip catching Jimin beneath his chin.

“The name of the game was going to be vengeance,” Scrimshaw said, lifting Jimin’s face to his. From this close, Jimin could detect the mesh of thin, interconnected hairline fractures that cover his features, like the crackled glaze of a teacup.

“And maybe it still could be,” the assassin goes on in a contemplative whisper. “After all, it was your blood.”

Jimin jerked his head away from him. “I – don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Scrimshaw retracts the claw, frowning at Jimin. “Oh, come now. It’s no fun if you don’t know _why_ I’m gutting you when I’m gutting you. _Think_!” he says, and uses the same claw to tap Jimin’s temple.

The prince smacks his hand away and takes another retreating step.

Annoyance filters over the man’s perfect face, but then his expression changes, morphing into a look of coy amusement.

“No need to be so short-tempered,” he says, flexing spidery fingers. “I could offer you a hint if you like.”

Jimin didn’t answer. Instead he focuses on the closest archway, one to his right. But just as he musters the courage to make a break for it, Scrimshaw sidestepped to block his path.

“We carry on, through the storm. Tired soldiers in the war. Remember what we’re fighting for.” he hums. The calmness in his tone makes it perfectly clear who is in charge right now.

Jimin spins and dashes for the archway directly behind him.

It is no good, though. A black fog sweeps ahead of him, and Scrimshaw reemerges from the murk, his angular form filling the door frame, the sudden rush of movement sending down a flurry of petals between them.

Opening his arms wide, Scrimshaw pressed his hands to either side of the frame, his palms smashing the heads of several flowers. He crooks one leg and crossed it over the other, smiling down at Jimin expectantly, clearly enjoying the one-sided game he’d enlisted him in.

Jimin skits to a stop, and turns on his heels to quickly head in the other direction. He doesn’t even allow the time to process how Scrimshaw just transported himself in a sheer of black tendrils of smoke. Though Jimin mentally wants to slap himself for the whimper that escapes his lips.

He hears Scrimshaw laugh. The sound, like the raspy chuckle of a deadly serial killer, sends spikes of cold dread through Jimin’s midsection.

As soon as he reaches a fork in the tunnels, Jimin again feels a rush of air skim by, this time tousling his hair. Jimin brushes the loosened strands from his face as the darkness accumulates in the tunnel archway to his immediate left. Scrimshaw re-forms once more, tapping his chin in thought with one tapered claw.

“I had a bit of hesitation thinking it was wrong to make this generation suffer for their ancestors troubles and problems. But then again I also find my own happiness tempered by the fact that your bloodlines lives.”

Holding his shoulder, Jimin turns and attempts another run, uncaring of how pathetic he looks. Black wisps shot past Jimin a third time. Scrimshaw solidifies again, closer than before, his grin growing wide enough to deepen the lines that ran up the corners of his mouth.

Scrimshaw gave him an appraising once-over, raising a clawed hand to hover above Jimin’s head as though making a note of his height. “While the attempt to do so would certainly be an appropriate, if uninformed response given your circumstances” – he lowers his hand, lifting a single claw – “you seem to be missing one vital element in the whole situation. It’s something you need to understand, I think, before we can get started; and that is that I” – he points at himself – “as you might have guessed, am not like others. I’m what you’d call _special_. A one-of-a-kind specimen, a priceless porcelain vase amid pale imposters.”

He laughs at that, throwing his head back before refocusing on Jimin.

“The very last of my ilk, in fact.”

And then Jimin feels the world go mute and the ground tilts under him as Scrimshaw flicks his wrists in the air between them. The indigo nails elongate, shooting out in a stinging, gleaming flash.

“Tell me, how many pieces would you like to be?” Scrimshaw purrs. “While I can’t promise I’ll be exact, I’ll try to keep your request in mind.”

Suddenly striking as fast as a desert asp, his foot meets with Jimin’s shoulder, and the prince goes flying backwards, falling so hard that his shoulder relocates with a sickening crunch. The agony blinds Jimin; the world goes in and out of focus. Things are so slow . . .

Scrimshaw grabs him by the collar of his jacket and pulls him to his feet. Jimin staggers out of the assassin’s grip, the ground rushing beneath him, and then falls – hard.

Jimin crawls into a kneeling position, still clutching his shoulder despite the pain slowly ebbing. He pants through his teeth, blood leaking from his nose. He’s only grateful that Scrimshaw didn’t notice the blood on his other shoulder where he got shot.

Eyeing him closely, taking one step toward Jimin for every two he took back to get away, Scrimshaw seems to be monitoring Jimin’s expression, waiting for the moment of realization to wash over him.

And Jimin knew right away that his face must have betrayed his sudden understanding, that his mounting terror must have become apparent, because all at once, the assassin stops his advance.

His smile deepens into the voracious grin of a piranha.

Jimin swallows the lump in his throat. His blood pumping in his ears.

Bringing his hands to his face, Scrimshaw crisscrosses his claws in front of his open eyes as though to cover them. He watches Jimin, unblinking through the cage-like barrier.

“One,” he says. “Two.”

Jimin bolts, taking the path directly behind him, the walls of roses whizzing past.

“ _Threeeee_.”

Met with a dead end, Jimin skitters to a halt. “No!” he shrieks.

“ _Fouuuur_ ,” he hears Scrimshaw drawl. “Some more numbers. Aaand – nine-ten!” he shouted cackling.

Jimin whips around, only to find the passageway now empty, two foot-shaped depression imprinted in the snow-like dust in the place where the man – or creature – had stood a moment before.

Panic rises within Jimin as he hurries back down the long vine-covered corridor, over the footprints, choosing his next direction at random, no longer certain from which way he’d come.

The roses seem to watch him like thousands of spectators as he passes, their delicate heads bobbing in his wake. There was no sign of Scrimshaw around the next corner, or even the next.

As he takes one passageway after another, he couldn’t help but feel that he was winding his way deeper and deeper into the garden’s maze and into Scrimshaw’s snare.

The soles of his boots slapped the marble floor, the sound muffled only slightly by the thin coating of petals and ash that carpet each passageway. Jimin whirls to stare at his tracks, wondering if he should try to cover them or just keep running.

He knew the assassin is far too fast for him to outrun. If Scrimshaw had wanted him dead right away, he would have killed him already.

He is looking for a chase, for the hunt before the kill. And was long as Jimin panics, he would be giving him just that. He has to get a grip.

Turning the corner, the prince suddenly finds himself in another circular room identical to the first. But now, the rose-covered corridors leading out of this clearing appear to have been swept clean of dust.

Jimin makes the turn. He hastens towards the end of the covered hall, through the opening, and into the largest clearing yet. And here, in the center of the room, stands a fountain.

High above the brass statue’s head and arcing veil, a blanket of roses twined with the decorative domed ceiling, their vines braided with the scrolling wrought-iron bars. A breeze enters the gaps between flowers and metal, sending a cascade of petals raining down.

Black mist whizzes past him and Scrimshaw emerges again. Black veins crawl out of his eyes and across his face, his grin widening. He flexes his claws and Jimin frantically looks around for something. He needs to buy time. Yoongi-hyung should be here soon, after the fight he’ll have to come and find him.

He has to.

As Scrimshaw strikes, Jimin manages to palm a dagger from his boot and blocks it. The metal shrieks and small sparks fly. Between the cross of their blades, the assassin-creatures grins at the prince.

“Now things are getting interesting.”

He pushes off and Jimin stumbles back, but regains footing. He remembers all the training he did with Yoongi-hyung. He grips his dagger, steels his spine and tries not to cradle his shoulder. He doesn’t want Scrimshaw to think he has any more of an advantage. The least Jimin can do it put up a fight.

Despite his nerves screaming to retreat, Jimin launches forward and strikes. He swings at Scrimshaw, the assassin blocking with maddening ease. Through his slashing, Jimin manages to get one strike, cutting into Scrimshaw’s flawless cheek. He yelps and staggers back, Jimin not hesitating to hurtle forward and slash into the assassin’s side and deliver a spin kick to the neck.

Quickly scrambling to get distance, Jimin turns back and holds out his dagger. Scrimshaw shakes his head, still standing. He looks to Jimin, still a grin on his lips. His hand reaches up and traces along the cut Jimin made. He examines the blood on his fingers and chuckles.

“Good.” He pants. He takes one step closer, Jimin one step back. “But not good enough.”

In a whip of smoke he’s upon Jimin and the prince manages to bring up his dagger to block a strike of Scrimshaw’s claws aimed for his throat. He shoves Jimin back and as the prince staggers, Scrimshaw brings his leg up and kicks Jimin in the ribs.

Jimin goes flying.

He hits the ground and flips, over and over and over, until he slams into the fountain. His head whacks against the stone, and Jimin bits back a yell. He trembles as he raises himself to his knees, clutching his side.

Jimin tastes blood as Scrimshaw seizes him again, dragging him across the floor.

Through is pounding head and blurred vision, he knew that this isn’t just an average assassination. Scrimshaw is making this into an execution.

Jimin thrashes in the assassin’s grip, despite the agony shooting through his body. He glances upwards towards the domed ceiling, seeing the tip of Scrimshaw’s chin before he hoists Jimin t his feet and slams him – face fist – into a wall of thorns and hot stone. He is enveloped by a familiar darkness. His skull aches with the impact, and his cry of pain echoes throughout the garden.

Light flashes as he is yanked back, and his eyes bulge as Scrimshaw throws him to the ground. The world is awash with fog and darkness.

He hears Scrimshaw approach and his shadows crawls over Jimin’s form. He doesn’t give the assassin a chance, not even a heartbeat, to realize he’s is conscious. He waits as he feels Scrimshaw’s presence lean in closer.

With no warning, he surges his shoulders up, throwing his head as hard as he can.

Bone cracks, and the assassin howls, but Jimin is already twisting, getting his legs beneath him. Scrimshaw scrambles back but snaps his arm out fast as a viper. Jimin brings one leg up to block and jab the assassin’s wrist, Jimin’s other foot lashing out to meet Scrimshaw’s face.

His head is pounding, and blood slides down the side of his neck, trickling into his tunic. He scrambles to bring his dagger up, but it gets caught within the assassin’s iron grip.

A roar of pain unleashes from Jimin’s throat as he feels the long nails dig into his skin, drawing blood as Scrimshaw pins him by his shoulder.

“I’m going to bite out your jugular!” Scrimshaw roars.

With a harsh yank that could’ve snapped his neck, he turns Jimin over, his arms above his head, Scrimshaw kneeling over him.

“Do you know how many men I’ve killed? How many royal?” Scrimshaw’s voice is soft, deceivingly coy. He takes his bloodied nail and delicately traces it down Jimin’s cheekbone. The touch like that of a moth. “How many more I’ve devoured? They were warriors, too – such talented, beautiful warriors. They tasted like summer pass and cool water.”

Jimin steadies his breathing, his heartbeat threatening to break his ribs. He swallows down a mouthful of saliva and blood.

Scrimshaw leans back, and Jimin nearly screams when he watches the assassin’s jaw unhinge, revealing more indigo teeth, gleaming and ready for his neck.

As he embraces his death, as he hears Scrimshaw howl, he is not prepared to see Yoongi-hyung suddenly tackle Scrimshaw form the side. It rips his nails from Jimin’s shoulder, making the prince yelp in pain.

Quickly he pushes himself up and finds Yoongi-hyung and Scrimshaw rolling along the floor. Jimin slams his hand against his throat to stop the blood, gulping as much air as he can without choking.

Teeth and nails out, they flip and shred and bite. Jimin’s blood freezes when he hears Scrimshaw roaring, roaring so loud the pebbles shake.

He watches Yoongi-hyung’s feet slam into Scrimshaw’s stomach, and the air shooting out of him as Yoongi-hyng is kicked off.

His hyung hits the earth, spits out a mouthful of blood, and is up in a heartbeat. Scrimshaw slashes with an iron-tipped hand, a blow that could have severed through bone and flesh. Yoongi-hyung ducks past the assassin’s guard and throws Scrimshaw onto the unforgiving stone.

Quaking like a leaf, Jimin watches as Yoongi-hyung brings his fist down onto Scrimshaw’s face. But it’s not the viciousness of the attack that scares him. . . No, it’s the look of cold, dead cruelty he sees Yoongi-hyung’s eyes.

Cold, ruthless, and merciless. This is his captain. This is his friend.

Struggling against his weight, Scrimshaw swipes at Yoongi-hyng’s face. His hyung reels back, the blow cutting down his neck. He doesn’t pay attention to the trickle of blood. He just draws back his fist, knee digging harder into Scrimshaw’s chest, and strikes. Again. And again.

Scrimshaw punches to Yoongi-hyung’s jaw and another in his stomach. Wheezing the air out, he is picked up and tossed heavily to the ground, flipping and skipping and sliding to a stop a couple inches ahead of Jimin.

“Yoongi-hyung!” Jimin cries.

Scattered to the side is Yoongi-hyung’s sword. In a surge of instinct, Jimin is on his feet, adrenaline blocking out his pain.

“Jimin!”

Jimin’s fingers feel solid, and he grips the sword and hurries toward the assassin. Scrimshaw lifts his head, but he only looks as far as Jimin’s waist.

Jimin brings the sword down, throwing every bit of strength into his arms.

Blood sprays everywhere.

There is a howl of hatred on Scrimshaw’s decapitated head as it thuds to a stop

Jimin watches as the assassin’s eyes fade into the far-seeing stare of the dead. He could’ve sworn he laughed with his last breath.

Quite falls.

Jimin swallows. Once. Twice.

Slowly, Jimin rises to her feet, warm blood spattered across his face and the blade of the sword dripping in crimson. His arms slacken at his sides. The blade clatters to the ground as Jimin’s hands shake.

He falls to his knees and is violently ill.

When there’s nothing else but bile in his throat, he feels warm hands on his back. Jimin spits and looks up to find Yoongi-hyung. His nose is bloody and clotted, cuts and bruises are on his features and along his neck.

Jimin wipes his mouth, not caring. His breathing begins to quake, only enhanced further as he feels his hyung kneel beside him. Yoongi-hyung’s arms warp around his shoulders and Jimin doesn’t hesitate to lean in to his hyung. Wanting to burrow into his warmth.

Tears stream down Jimin’s cheek and his shoulders begin to shudder, curving into himself. He wants to protest Yoongi-hyung as he slides his arm under Jimin’s knees and lifts him from the ground. He knew his hyung was fatigued, but Jimin knew that he couldn’t walk either. Not when he is quaking from the subsiding adrenaline.

So he just softly cries into Yoongi-hyung’s shoulder as he’s carried back to his rooms. A flood of guards pooling into the garden to deal with the remnants of Scrimshaw.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

He had passed out some time between Yoongi-hyung carrying him out of the garden and up to his rooms. He could hear the muffled screams of his mother and the roaring orders of his father, and could feel the warmth of blood – _his_ blood – as it streamed down his shoulder and arm, gathering and clotting his clothing.

He felt the thumping of the steps as Yoongi-hyung mounted the steps. The movements made him nauseous and his pounding head fell into the rhythm of his hyung’s steps.

Then the darkness came to embrace him and Jimin walked into it with open arms.

Now as he slowly swims towards semi-consciousness, he tries not to wince at the pain that shoots through his shoulder and leg as he awakens. Walled in blankets and bandages, he glances at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s almost one in the afternoon.

His jaw hurt as he opened his mouth. Jimin didn’t need a mirror to know he looked horrible with nasty bruises. He tries unsuccessfully to sit up. Everything hurts.

His arm is in a sling, and his thigh stings as his legs move under the covers. His curtains are drawn, the remaining light of the day trying to pierce through. He wants to get up and shove them open; wants to feel the warmth of light on his face and see life is still going on. That he is still alive.

He wears a tunic of the softest silk, very light in both thickness and color – a delicate rose pink – and it doesn’t have any sleeves, to reveal the white bandages wrapping around his shoulder.

The door to his chambers opens and Jimin suppresses his wince as his body barks in pain. Yoongi-hyung stands in the doorway to his bedrooms with a stoic exterior. His face is neutral as always.

They just stare at one another for a moment, not knowing what to say. He’s not dressed in his usual armor; today is merely a tunic of pine green, gold embroidery along the necklace and cuffs then black pants. He removed his boots somehow between entering Jimin’s chambers and coming to the doorway, and somehow, seeing his bare feet feels oddly intimate. Jimin almost averts his eyes, but his hyung pads his way across the wooden floor towards the bed.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly. Too softly – something is bothering him, and Jimin has a feeling he knew what it was.

“Exactly how I feel.” He answers. He tries another attempt to get up, biting back his grunts as best a she can.

Without a word, Yoongi-hyung comes over and props up a couple pillows, and with a gentleness that surprises Jimin beyond belief, he helps adjust him to a comfortable position. Once Jimin settles with his hands in his lap, Yoongi-hyung sits on the edge of the bed.

“I took the next three days off.” He states.

Jimin gives a terse nod. “You could use the time.”

“I’m going to be helping take of you.”

Another statement, one that Jimin furrows his brow at. “Why? Shouldn’t you be trying to track down the origin of the assassin?”

“He’s dead. Not like he’ll be going anywhere soon. We need time to observe his uniform and weapons, see if we can track their origins that way.”

“If you can.” Jimin murmurs.

That man, he was not human, that was obvious. The way he dispersed into plumes of black smoke and reappeared out of that smoke . . . he was not of this world. Was he – was he a demon? A foreign creature given a deceiving mortal flesh?

Jimin swallows and asks, “How bad was everything afterwards?”

“None of the guests were injured. Everyone had gotten out despite the chaos.”

“My parents?”

“They’re alright. We had expected some kind of, collective group to attack, but it was just the one. The one who targeted you.”

Jimin’s eyes fall to his covers, his heart skipping a beat. He would’ve clenched his jaw had his teeth not ached. “I don’t think we will be hosting balls anytime soon.” He attempts to amuse, but fails.

His hyung rubs his thumb across the back of Jimin’s hand. “He killed a member of the guard. That’s how he obtained the armor and weapons; how we could not track him down in time.” Yoongi-hyung says, his face rippling with anger.

Jimin reaches out and sets his hand over his hyung’s. “I am so sorry about what happened.”

“Not as sorry as I am to you.” Yoongi-hyung cradles Jimin’s now clean hand in his own. “I’m so sorry. I just – I should’ve known better. I _never_ should’ve left your side. It was only a miracle that I arrived in time.”

Jimin remains still, solid as he watches his hyung’s lip quiver, his shoulders roll forward. But not to sob, not to cry, but to try and cocoon the building anger at his own failure. Jimin gives Yoongi-hyung’s hand a reaffirming squeeze; giving the only comfort his hyung will accept. Solidarity.

“Everyone makes mistakes, Yoongi-hyung. You still came, you still saved me. And that’s what matters.”

“But I _should’ve_ known better. It could’ve all been avoided if I had just stay with you –”

“Enough.” Jimin snaps, the compression of his chest making him stifle another grunt of pain. His hyung looks to him with those wide midnight eyes. “Everyone makes mistakes. So you miscalculated. So I got hurt. You still saved me. I am still alive because of _you_. And that is what everyone should focus on. You saved the prince. You did your duty as a guard.”

“But it’s going to be easily overlooked when they begin to gossip about how the assassin got past the guard.”

“I don’t think so.” Jimin retorts with another squeeze of his hands. “You saved me, and I and my family will forever be grateful.”

Yoongi-hyung gives a small smile, whether it’s genuine or merely means to make Jimin feel better he can’t tell. But it’s an effort.

“If anything, word about how you killed him will be the talk of the kingdom. And perhaps they will think twice before they send another one.”

Jimin upturns the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to kill the assassin. Some part of him knew that he would’ve been better off alive for Yoongi-hyung and the guards to interrogate. But a part of Jimin also knew that the assassin would have found a way to kill himself regardless if he were captured.

He almost missed it when Yoongi-hyung’s hand reached up and his two fingers clasped the fabric of his shirt and pulled the strap down to his shoulder. His heart beating quickly, he watches as Yoongi-hyung fetches a mirror.

Jimin almost objects, not wanting to see his haggard self, but his hyung only angles the mirror enough that his face is cut off, only showing him from the shoulders down. Still Jimin can see the nasty bruises he suspected as they dot their way across his chest and shoulder like wiled roses.

He swallows when he sees little white marks curving their way across his neck and down to his collarbone.

A necklace of scars left by Scrimshaw.

“Congratulations.” His hyung says tightly. “Your first scar.”

“I hate it.” Jimin frowns.

It wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t a truth. He always had a form of admiration and, dare he say envy, of those with scars. To have the physical evidence of adventures and journeys they’ve taken. About the fights they’ve been in and it makes you wonder who their opponent was to leave such a scar.

Much like the protégé of Kim Namjoon.

But he’s a prince. Something about him should be, pure. Untouched, unmarked. While he’s glad he managed to kill the assassin, he almost feels, ashamed to have his skin marked. Gods, his parents probably won’t let him leave the castle for weeks. Months, perhaps.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about, if that’s what bothers you.” His hyung says as he sets down the mirror.

“It still makes me feel self-conscious.”

“If it bothers you that much we have plenty of excellent healers who could do something about it.”

Pondering in the palpable silence of his rooms, Jimin sighs and leans back into the softness of the pillow. “Perhaps that is another matter we can save for another day.”

Yoongi-hyung dips his chin. “As you wish.”

“I’m glad to know you’re still with us.” Jimin then says, making himself smile, even if his skin felt tight.

“Your father was very gracious about it.”

Jimin keeps smiling. “Of course, you saved me.”

Another terse nod, their hands still holding one another. The atmosphere is still stiff, only because neither of them want to acknowledge the other facts of the conversation that have yet to be spoken about.

Jimin then speaks, “Why me?”

Yoongi-hyung casts his gaze down for a heartbeat, and Jimin watches as his throat bob as he swallows. “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out. We’re going to be cautious, and you also have to understand that you can’t leave the castle grounds until we can find a lead.”

“How long with that take?”

“I can’t be sure.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to sit in my chambers all day.” Jimin says, trying to sit up but fails. He sighs and leans back into the pillows.

“No one is saying you have to. Just don’t leave the castle.”

“It might as well be the same thing.” Jimin retorts.

“You have two game parks, five music rooms, two stables, billiards rooms, a library, and an armory. You’ll be fine.”

Jimin only sticks out his tongue. He wants to fold his arms, but doesn’t because of the throbbing in his shoulder. “Where do you men plan to start?”

“Give us time to examine the body first.” Yoongi-hyung says, Jimin cringing at the idea. “But, honestly, I don’t know yet. I’m going to help them inspect and gather information, but as for searching the town? It’ll have to be discreet and cautious. No doubt they will send out more now that one has failed.”

Jimin swallows thickly, taking a deep breath to ease the sudden jump in his heartbeat.

Yoongi-hyung’s hand rubs Jimin’s. “I will protect you. I promise.” Jimin nods and spares his hyung a grin. Yoongi-hyung rises from the bed and sighs. “Well, I believe I’ve bothered you long enough. You need to get some rest.”

“Very well. Thank you, hyung.”

As Yoongi-hyung opens the doors to Jimin’s chambers, the prince sighs and wriggles his way back down under the covers.

He didn’t think he was that exhausted, but when the plushness of the pillow cradles his head, darkness immediately swathes over him.

* * *

Feeling refreshed beneath a breathable, periwinkle silk shirt and black pants, Jungkook strode through the streets of Busan’s most expensive avenue. His black leather boots click against the cobblestone. Last night’s weather was heavenly; a lovely break from the humidity that could make hair curl. But like most nice things in Busan, it was short lived.

The temperatures quickly became sizzling the next morning, which means Jungkook is forever grateful to not be concealed his usual far-too-stuffy black cloak, tunic, and ebony mask.

He would be sweating buckets beneath that clothing. But his discomfort was usually worth it: as he would walk down the marketplace or avenues, heads would turn at the sight of him – his billowing black cape, the exquisite clothing, and the mask transformed him into a whisper of darkness. A little intimidation never did any harm. Especially when the mask warped his voice into a growling rasp.

The mask and clothes were a necessary precaution, one that makes it far easier to protect his identity. In fact, all of Namjoon-hyung’s huntsmen had been sworn to secrecy about who he is – under the threat of endless torture and eventual death.

All that the world knew about Jeon Jungkook, Kim Namjoon’s protégé and Busan’s Huntsman, is that he is male. And he wants to keep it that way.

How else is he able to stroll the broad avenues of Busan such as today? Or infiltrate grand partiers by posing as foreign nobility?

His fingertips brush the pommel of his dagger, secured next to his coin purse. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try and rob him. Unlike his hyung, he’s not in the mood for a fight.

He tugs at the matching silk choker tied around his neck. This outfit is ridiculous, insisted upon him by his hyung’s servants. Normally he doesn’t care what he looks like, but Namjoon-hyung is quite picky about certain clothes. He kept saying how Jungkook is blessed with a handful of attractive features that compensate for the majority of average ones; and, by early adolescence, he’d discovered that with the help of cosmetics, these average features could easily match the extraordinary assets. If only the cosmetics didn’t stop him from scratching his eyes.

A few men even glare at him as he passes, the heads of their women turning to his attention. His smile growing, he squares his shoulders and schools his features into neutrality. His beauty is a weapon, one he keeps honed.

While he didn’t have much to look for, he just wanted to get out of the manor for some fresh air; no matter how humid it might be.

Children cry and squeal with glee as they splash in the wide basin of the fountain at the center of the square. Several birds walk along the ground, pecking at small crumbs of bread. Villagers are about their business, selling goods and marrying with one another. Children follow a dog that has snatched a handkerchief and now runs down the cobblestone boardwalk.

The entire town is prepping for Chuseok as there are pumpkins stacked in little piles outside shops, in front of signs to churches and halls, and stacks of hay are set around the parks. Decorations of autumnal wreaths and promotional sighs are strung near doorways, strings of multicolored corn handing on front doors.

Many leaves have fallen along the sidewalks that now crunch underfoot. Off in the distance, along the horizon of the town, the snow tipped mountains stand guard. With the bright autumn colors against the clear blue sky, the town is as vibrant this afternoon as it was at the height of summer.

Jungkook weaves through the crowd with a kind of casual grace that anyone eyeing him envies. As he walks down the crowded avenue, he weaves with that grace no matter how many people were shoved into his path, or stepped in his path, or cursed him for stepping in theirs, he doesn’t falter, and his boyish grin growing. Many people stop to stare at him but he takes it in stride.

As he passes by the shops, he wishes he had brought more money. Given that Chuseok requires a brand new wardrobe, they have vendors from all the kingdoms in Korea coming in to trade – and beyond.

The wares range from spices from Joella, to jewels and clothes from Chungcheong; from food of Seoul and Gyeonggi, to handmade weapons and bags from the villages of Gangwon, and a variety of books from Jeji. Many are displayed on mannequins or stacked up on boxes or set on podiums or lined in wooden crates.

When he reaches the plaza area, the shops disappear and shrink down into shaded tables with merchandise spread across blankets or whicker placemats, and strings of lanterns swoop from streetlamp to streetlamp, glittering like stars.

The lower market is laid out like a man’s back. The main road forms the spine and leads towards the castle’s North Tower, while smaller roads and alleys branch off like ribs running east and west.

The first stall he reaches is a trestle table laden with a few remaining crates of juicy pears and thick-skinned melons. A woman and her husband squeeze the fruit between their fingers before loading up their sack, murmuring to each other as they weigh each choice. Two more stalls down, they reach the candle maker’s and the first of the west-running roads.

A man on his left is hawking a collection of hunting knives with leather sheaths. Giving his wares a cursory glance, Jungkook slides his hand in the pocket of his pants, and run his fingers along the sheath he wears strapped to his waist.

 _His knives are nice_ , he thinks. _Mine is better_.

Leaving his knife alone, he keeps walking. He moves briskly and keeps to the sides, hoping to avoid attracting too much attention.

Once the scent of something exquisite reaches his senses, he diverges from his path following his nose instead.

He’s made the journey to Oliver-nim’s bakery more times than he can count, and there are never any guards on the western side of the lower market this late in the day. Their eyes scrape over the display window varying many delicious delicacies set atop stands and expertly placed with professional precision.

Sliding past a wagon, crowds begin to sluggishly move along the streets, conversations soft. Two left turns later, he’s at the western edge of the market. He sidesteps a woman wrestling a plucked turkey into the woven basket strapped to her back, and approaches Oliver-nim’s store.

Unlike the shops is Busan’s wealthier district, Oliver-nim’s shop has a more, vintage feel to it. With its chipping paint and old brick chimney belching plumes of smoke. He walks in and disturbs the old belt of bells strapped to the door.

The yeasty aroma of braided raisin loaves pierced by the sharp sweetness of orange buns wraps around him, and his stomach growls like a ravenous dog. Oliver stands alone amid wooden tables draped in crumb-coated tablecloths and covered with trays holding the last of his baked goods.

“Oliver-nim!” Jungkook calls, giving a deep bow.

Oliver-nim looks up, smiles, and plucks a sticky bun from the stash he always keeps for the children who visit. He knows they’re one of Jungkook’s favorite. “Almost thought you’d forgotten I made your favorite.”

Jungkook smiles. He snatches the sticky bun Oliver-nim tosses in his direction. He tears off a chunk of bread, popping it in his mouth. The warm gooey sweetness permeating his tongue.

“You like nice tonight. Seeing someone special?” Oliver-nim asks as he pats away the flour coating his hands.

Almost choking on the bun, Jungkook coughs and clears his throat. “No! Gods no.”

Oliver-nim chuckles as he continues to knead the dough in front of him. His hair is thin, but still black like the coal in his wide-mouthed oven brewing with fire. His spectacles are at the edge of his nose and a little beaded chain around his neck keeps them from falling, his hands, big as dinner plates, are coated in flour, filling into the little greaves of his knuckles and palms.

“Might I ask what the occasion is?” he then asks.

Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing really, just shopping around.”

“You’re not quite one to just shop.” The baker chuckles. “Everything going okay at home?”

“Oh yes, things are alright. I just wanted to get outside. Not just sit around inside that stuffy house.”

Jungkook browses the display case of baked goods as the old bells croak again. An older woman comes in with her grandchild, the little girl hopping with excitement. Jungkook leans against a table, waiting for his turn. He folds his arms and observes the apprentice baker as he takes a large wooden peel to slide and retrieve a fresh batch of muffins.

He is so caught up in the smell of them, and the taste of the sticky bun that he almost didn’t head the commotion outside. Looking through the glass, he finds a trio of black stallions running through the streets. Their slick hair gleams like polished onyx. There are certain yelps of surprise, but no one is panicking.

He might have not paid them any heed; he might not have given them his attention had he not seen the decorations adorning the horses. Reins and blankets with the royal seal of Busan. The royal guards are in town, but why?

It’s certainly something that captures his curiosity, but as long as they’re not looking for him or Namjoon-hyung, there’s no reason to care.

Five minutes later, Jungkook is carrying a bag of Gangwon candy, and tucked under his arm is a bottle of Seoul’s finest wine.

He pops another frosted candy in his mouth, smiling at nobles who gawk at him. Their pale skin and flamboyant gowns make h nauseous. At least his attire consists of calm and earth-toned colors, and he never understood why women wear those confounded corsets that suffocate their ribs and pushes up their breasts for everyone to see. Even some courtesans have more respect for themselves.

Still, Jungkook notes at least three jackets he wants to look into as he turns a corner back into the square, a thick stain of water permeates the perimeter of the fountain. The children still play, a young woman joining the fun by dancing with ribbons of water circling around her, flowing as gracefully as her. A small crowd have gathered to watch her, a small group of children sitting to watch her in awe.

As Jungkook slows his pace, even stopping himself to watch, a small smile upturns the corners of his mouth.

These are some of the things he misses sometimes. Just enjoying the average lifestyle of being a normal boy. The want and urge has been becoming more and more prominent the more he takes strolls through the marketplace. Sometimes it even hurts his soul when he overhears conversations of some of the citizens. Talking about such normal things and problems. He can almost see the energy in the room. Pure white souls compared to the dark flame brewing in his own.

Sighing heavily, he spares the young woman a silver before he makes his way back to wealthier districts of Busan. He browses and buys two more new tunics and a couple of new knives before the setting sun made him start the walk back to the manor. He didn’t take a carriage like the servants suggested, wanting to enjoy every step and actually smell the fresh air.

Once he’s finished the candy, to his own dismay, he sets the wine inside the bag and readjusts everything in his arms, setting bags inside bags to lighten the load. Perhaps he should’ve brought a satchel.

He thought his shopping was done, that is until something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He pauses and looks to find a stall that’s lined with game. Rabbits, squirrels, turkeys, fish, pheasants, a _whole boar_ , even the venison of a deer and its antlers. This stall – from looking at its faded purple tablecloth and banner strung across to act like an awning – is meant to be in the lower districts, but somehow, they have the insanity to set up almost right along the border between the wealthier and lower.

It seemed so out of place that Jungkook _had_ to walk over to examine the kills. Not so many hunters can bring down such animals, especially this time of year when many go into hibernation.

He’s the only one at the stall to his genuine surprise. He assumed it would be crowded with butchers or lower to even middle class customers wanting such rare catches. Jungkook himself is impressed wanting to buy that boar to some boar for the chef at the keep to make that delicious stew.

He can see someone seated in the back corner of the stall, engaged in a book, feet propped up on a stool. Then a second who is bent over adjusting, something under the cloth. The one seated in the back gives a nod of acknowledgement, Jungkook nodding and bowing in return.

As if sensing his approach, the man under the table rises and gives a warm greeting. “Welcome sir.” He smiles.

“Hello.” Jungkook says, easily retuning the gesture. He holds out his hand, and the man takes it with a good shake. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 22.”

Jungkook nods and bows again, finishing their handshake. He has to admit, if the striking display of game didn’t attract any customers, perhaps the vendor could.

His hair is short, and a gleaming coppery red; very distinct color compared to most. They’re about the same height, his body built of average, but definitely distinct with how the sleeves hug close to his arms. Probably the most distinguishing feature is his eyes. A magnificent cobalt blue with a soft ring of gold around his pupil.

There’s also a sense of, awareness, within them that makes even Jungkook feel, naked. Exposed. A keenness that would make any assassin proud. A small bit of praise to him.

“Might I ask your name?” Jungkook asks.

“Jung Hoseok.” The vendor says with a slight bow.

Jungkook bows and observes the game. “These are quite the kills, Hoseok-nim.”

“Thank you.” Hoseok-nim smiles.

A hunter and a huntsman. Quite a meeting.

His eyes flicking towards the back of the tent, where the second man sits with his feet propped up on the chair, a lovely bow and sheath of arrows sits leaning against a crate. The vendor’s eyes follow and he looks back to Jungkook and smiles. Jungkook raises his brows at how sharp the man’s jawline is. “You like weapons?” he asks.

“I’m quite a fan.” Jungkook admits.

The bow didn’t look like anything special: made with oak wood and a thick string. Although the arrows have a certain form of craftsmanship as the fletching seems to be made from hawk feathers.

“Do you make your own bows?”

The vendor smiles bashfully. “I, practice, but it’s not something I actively engage in.”

He turns his attention back to the table sprawled with game, more and more impressed with the cleanness and accuracy of the shots. Clear through the eye, and not one in the sides.

“See anything you like?” the young man asks.

“Just the shots. You seem to be quite the skilled marksmen, Hoseok-nim.”

Hoseok shrugs. “I’ve been hunting since I was young. Part of the family business.”

Jungkook nods and spares his pocket watch a quick glance, realizing he needs to be back at the manor soon. He decides the hunter’s kills are worth a small amount of coin. He buys a bit of meat from the deer, and four fish. He leaves behind a silver just for Hoseok and the skills he has but keep quiet. Nothing wrong with a humble man.

Gathering his things, Jungkook heads back to the manor, trying to ignore the smell of the fish. He pouts his lips and wrinkles his nose in annoyance.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

Jung Hoseok watches as the young man carries the bags of fish and meat. His arms are fairly full, but still he walks with a feline grace, like the many big cats he encounters while in the woods hunting. It was truly something to admire, especially for someone who seemed so young.

Young, but _felt_ old. The young man is no older than nineteen, and yet just from looking at him, his face told of many tales; and something almost, ancient was etched in those sharp features.

Swathed in an air of mystery and cloaked in secrecy and darkness, it left him completely and utterly enchanted.

He can only hope as the stunning young man will return. For now, he attends to the stall, packing up the meat for tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

With his feet propped up on the arm of the couch, his back against the cushions, Jimin sighs through his nose as the light of the sun warms his face. The windows of his sun parlor are blinding in the afternoon, the sun directly overhead of the castle. Its spires do so little to provide shade for him.

The book he was reading is set atop his chest, open to the page he left off when his eyes began to dry. His shoulder still throbs from certain movements, but it’s nothing compared to the pain from before.

Days have passed since the attempted assassination, and with the healers tending to him, his wounds were healed incredibly and the wound of the arrow closed; but they weren’t talented enough to heal the tissues and muscles that the arrow ripped through. He’ll have to let his body heal that itself.

Keeping to his promise, Yoongi-hyung attended to him with the healers, and watched over them while they removed the bandages and stitched his skin back together using magic. Not real stitches, the very thought of a needle going through his skin makes Jimin’s skin crawl. Still, it fascinated Jimin to watch his own skin reach and grab and pull itself back together. Within hours, he had gained back a little bit of range of motion in his arms, but it was still sore. Today is actually his first of getting out of bed; Yoongi-hyung refusing to let him even move an inch with his still healing muscles.

The bandages are still wrapped around his shoulder, if only to not look at the gross scar in the shape of a small hole. His parents did come to see him, mostly his mother; and she spent the better part of her visit sobbing and crying and constantly holding Jimin and cooing on how sorry she was that he had to go through such an experience. His father merely patted him on his good shoulder, asked if he was the one who killed the assassin, and when Jimin answered yes, he nodded and grinned and left with nothing further. Jimin almost wanted to throw the candelabrum at his father’s head.

The first couple of days were blurs of black and white, with small bits of images here and there. Yoongi-hyung carrying him, vomiting his entire insides into a bucket from the numbing serum, Yoongi-hyung holding him down while the healers stitched his leg. The next day he was told that Scrimshaw had cracked one of his ribs.

Lifting his hand to cover his face, Jimin watches the rays dance through his fingers. The main doors to his chambers shuts and he springs up from the couch, sending a sharp pain lance through his shoulder. Jimin grunts to ease the pain and adjusts himself on the couch as Yoongi-hyung walks under the archway into the parlor, his footsteps heavy.

The prince frowns at the look on his hyung’s face. “What’s the matter, hyung?”

“I – I don’t know,” he says. The vacant, lost look in his hyung’s eyes increases the tempo of his heart.

“Here,” Jimin says as he gently pats the space beside him. He then reaches out and grabs Yoongi-hyung’s jacket. “Come sit.”

Surprisingly, he obediently sat, though he keeps his gaze downcast as he puts his head in his hands and takes several deep breaths. Jimin gingerly touches his shoulder. Yoongi-hyung stiffens, and he almost pulls away; but the captain relaxes, and he continues controlling his breathing. “Are you ill?” Jimin asks.

“No.” His hyung mumbles.

“Yoongi-hyung, what’s wrong?” he briefly adjusts the straps of his silk pink shirt, tugging down the matching shorts.

A deep sigh and Yoongi-hyung then leans back until he’s resting against the couch. “We’ve been studying Scrimshaw’s body for days now, but we still don’t know where he came from or who he was working for.” Jimin folds his legs up and hugs his knees. His hyung gives another heavy sigh as his words seem heavier, “I was contemplating on asking you questions about him, if you’re comfortable.”

Jimin swallows heavily. He hasn’t been sleeping well during the days of his healing, his eyes having the same darkness under them like Yoongi-hyung. Scrimshaw haunted every corner of his nightmares, those talon-like claws threatening to sear themselves into his navel. But he’d never let the healers, the servants or Yoongi-hyung know that. Especially when Yoongi-hyung felt guilty enough that he didn’t protect Jimin as efficiently as he should have.

“If you think it’ll help.” Jimin mumbles, wishing he had more power in his voice.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, then we don’t have to.”

“No, no, no. It’s fine.” Jimin insists. “I’d be happy to help you; especially if it means you’ll be sleeping better at night.” Yoongi-hyung gives a ghost of a smile as Jimin pokes at the skin just under his eyes. “So, where do you want me to start?”

“From the beginning.”

Jimin looks away for a moment, pondering what exactly the “beginning” could be. They already know what he looks like. They possibly know the organization he works for; but then again, he was wearing the armor of the guard he killed. No, he remembers Yoongi-hyung talking about inspecting the armor.

“Well, it was after we had fled the ballroom, and we were headed into the gardens.” Jimin starts, tucking his legs beneath him. “It felt like being watched by a possessed cat, the way his expression was so, calculating. His teeth were sharp, and his eyes, by the gods, his _eyes_ they were just, black. No color, and almost no soul.”

Jimin’s voice begins to quiver and he holds his legs close to him as his hyung places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“He – he couldn’t have been of this world.” He suddenly finds himself saying. He looks to his hyung who only raises his brows. “He had these, special powers, hyung. When I first tried to run, this cloud of black smoke came rushing past me, and then I watched him _materialize_ right before my eyes.”

That is what makes his hyung’s face shift into a seriousness that makes Jimin’s heart sink. But still he continues.

“He had clawed fingers, and this horrible grin. And it was, boggling to watch him emerge from the mist. He kept talking about my bloodline and what it did to him, and he spoke of this odd phrase, something about tired soldiers fighting in a war.”

“Did he say anything else?” Yoongi-hyung asks, his demeanor shifting immediately into something familiar.

“Well, he might’ve even mentioned about who he works for, but I’m not entirely sure.”

“Do you remember what he said?” His hyung scoots closer, continually rubbing Jimin’s shoulder.

“I believe he said something about an ilk? Something about being the last of his kind, a priceless vase in a room of imposters, something like that.”

He looks in time to catch his captain’s face grow even paler than before, and his eyes widen into something like shock and disbelief. Jimin’s heart stammers and he turns to his hyung and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Yoongi-hyung immediately rises and adjusts his belt. “You’ve helped me put together some missing pieces.” He then turns and begins to walk for the door, or at least walk as fast as he can without running.

“Hyung, wait!” Jimin calls, hurrying after him. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

“I don’t need you to worry about that right now.” His hyung says, stopping just at the threshold of the main chamber doors. “You’ve helped me, and I thank you. I will admit to you, this possible threat could be very dangerous. So I need you to be cautious and alert. Understand?”

“Hyung, you’re making me nervous.” Jimin says as he takes a frightened step back.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Yoongi-hyung says as she gently holds Jimin’s shoulders. “But this is serious, and I need you to be careful. I don’t know what it all means yet, but you have helped greatly.”

“Will you be alright?”

“I will now.” His hyung nods. “For one I’ll get more sleep now. Take care, and thank you.”

Without letting Jimin ask another question, his hyung turns and leaves, heading down the hallway.

As Jimin looks after him, he only fiddles with his shirt shortly before closing his doors. He knew his hyung was trying to hide his fear, but he couldn’t hide it well enough from Jimin. His nursemaid was the one who told him to _look_ , and to _see_. Yoongi-hyung knows something, something important that connects to Scrimshaw and the guild he serves. And they seem like something to fear according his hyung’s attempt to hide his fear.

He wants to know, but at the same time, he’s barely sleeping now, and he won’t ever again if he knew what his hyung is trying to hide.

So Jimin decides to leave his hyung to his doings, but he still double locks the bathroom door when he goes to take a bath.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

The scars on his back ache and he can feel the warmth of his blood slide down his spine. But if he’s not lying dead on the ground, he must work.

He has grown accustomed to sounds and smells of the mine: the sound of the metal hitting the stone, the cracks of an iron-tipped whip sounding loudly in the narrow shafts, the screams of those the whipped had cleaved into, the smell of blood both raw and mixed with dirt and dust of stone.

As he swings his pickaxe into another chunk of stone, he cringes slightly as the handle rubs against the swollen callus of his hand. The thin shoes don’t do anything to help his feet either. They’re not even shoes, they’re simple pieces of leftover fabric that he had wrapped around his feet to try and give some form of padding. And he wrapped up the left because his callus was peeling, exposing a nuisance of a blister.

Wiping his forehead, he frowns as he sees the smears of dirt gathered over the time of being stuck in this mine. No doubt his forehead is smeared too, not that it matters, he hasn’t been in front of a mirror in . . . what feels like forever.

Over to his right, the whip cracks loudly, and his head twitches as he haunches into himself. His own scars look more like the claw marks of some animal, starting from the top of his right shoulder and trailing down across down to his waistline. They crisscross here and there, the ruined flesh beyond the hope or skill of any healer.

He’ll never forget his first whipping; the feeling of the iron tips slashing into his skin, spraying blood on the back of his neck and on the jagged rocks on the ground that scraped into his knees.

He swings his axe again and the rock shatters. As he brushes the rocks aside with his foot, the chains around his ankles rattling, he suddenly pauses when he thinks he sees the rocks starting to . . . quiver. He can’t watch for long, as he hears the heavy footsteps of his overseer coming towards him. Quickly he raises his pickax and swings again at the unforgiving wall of stone. The steps walk past him.

His thoughts wander off as he digs deeper. It helps take his mind off of the pain and agony that surrounds him like a palpable fog. He can drift off to somewhere that isn’t here. He doesn’t daydream about distant lands and green fields with normal townsfolk who wave to him happily as they fetch water from a well.

It would only darken his spirit more.

When he awoke every morning, he repeated the same words: _Not today_. The words that his former mentor had taught him when sword fighting. The words that he now holds dear to his heart after the death of his mentor, by torture and beheading.

For a year, those words had meant the difference between breaking and bending; they had kept him from shattering in the darkness of the mines.

Some days, he wonders if he would have been better off dying on the butchering blocks instead. And if he might have been better off dying that night he’d been captured, too.

His hair has lost its sheen, reduced to a worn-out grey, with ill kept wounds, and his rib bones that shine plainly through. His knees have knuckled over, and are very unsteady. There is a hopeless look in his now dull eyes, the same as every other salve in the mine; making him one of their own.

His once toned arms and broad muscles are thin and lank, and fallen in. Several blisters that haven’t healed are now swelled; some joints are grown out of shape from hard work.

As he goes for another swing, he hisses at it stretches his clotted wounds more. He continues to dig deeper, his thoughts wandering, until he hears the rattling.

Its body had overlapping scales that made small black diamonds intermingling with the main red sandstone color. Its head having a few crowded plates over the snout. Its eyes were thin like a cat’s, but it wasn’t rattling. It simply stared at him, still as if it were a statue, the same way he would look at his own prey when he was a forced to be reckoned with.

They stared at one another, sizing each other up. The footsteps of his overseer approached and he shouted to the slaves to keep working, and he knew the guard was staring at him. Yet he didn’t move.

Instead, he was gazing at his chance. His only chance possibly.

The overseer shouts at him again, the shadow growing larger at the guard’s approach.

One step at a time he takes towards the snake, and he extends out his foot. Then it starts to rattle. A warning, but he didn’t listen.

The overseer and a few slaves jump back, squealing in fear. He slowly keeps advancing his foot towards its head. One slave girl cried for him to stop, but she was too late.

He never breaks eye contact with the snake, until he feels the harsh pinch of the fangs and the extreme burning. He thinks he might’ve screamed, the pain near blinding. He could feel the venom bleed into his foot. Collapsing to the ground, he begins to shake, his vision focusing in and out.

Shadows circle around him, not moving, but watching. Not helping, but watching.

And then darkness. Sweet, blissful darkness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but the pain is there to greet him the moment he swims back to semi-consciousness. It starts in his foot, a heavy throbbing that feels like it might have a heartbeat of its own. Like the heart in his chest that still beats. That fought against the venom, and now he is back in the living hell.

Water drips beside him. Hours have past, or perhaps days. Each of his senses reactivates and he feel the pain, feel the wet pile of hay beneath his back, still pinching with pain from the morning whippings. Gentle fingers pat his temple with a cold rag and he sighs in sweet relief.

Fluttering his eyes open, she finds a woman with long chestnut hair sitting over him, her face calm, though her grey eyes hard as stone. Her hair is braided as it drapes over her shoulder, freckles dotting across her nose in the dim candlelight.

His throat bobs, voice hoarse as he asks, “Why?”

“I was a healer before.” She says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s only an instinct. They threw you in here just waiting for you to die, but I couldn’t just let them.”

“Why?” he asks again, angered for her kindness.

Not only because he doesn’t deserve it – especially in a place like this – but because he thought his intensions were obvious. No one in their right mind would set their foot that close to a snake when it’s so obviously warning him to go away.

The woman is silent as she cleans the rag in a chipped wooden bowl, already tainted red and brown. Finally as she goes to wrap his foot in the coldness of the rag, she says, “Because you’re the best thing that has happened to this place in a long while. You destined for so much more than this. You just have to be patient.”

His throat nearly clogs at her words. She doesn’t say anything else, only staring at him with those cold, _knowing_ eyes. He didn’t think anyone knew who he was, and frankly he wanted to keep it that way.

His past is too painful, and at least the screams here in the mines take his thoughts away from it.

“The past is in the past. Nothing can change it.”

“But you can change the future.” She retorts, carefully massaging his injured foot. He would’ve kicked her, but the last thing he needs is to disturb the guards. Any fights will have him ending up in solitary again. And he doesn’t want to go back to that darkness.

They once locked him up for three weeks straight for biting the ear off his previous overseer. Many parts of his mind shut down in those holes, and he could only remember the reason why he was in this hellhole in the first place. He barely remembered his name, but that was something he _chose_ to forget long ago.

The young woman brings forward a tin salve and unscrews the top to reveal a mint colored cream. “It’s a healing salve my mother gave to me. I was told to use it in severe times. I suppose this counts.”

“You’re wasting it.” he says. Gods, his voice is like sandpaper.

“I don’t think so.” She simply replies. She dips two fingers into the can and begins to massage it onto his foot. He bites back the pain from the pressure of her hands, but loosens as he feels the cooling sensation ease his tense muscle.

“You’ll go far in this world.” She mumbles.

Perhaps she’s already mad and this is nothing but folly. That has happened here before.

So he decides to ignore her and simply rest his head on the pile of hay behind him. thanks to her he’ll have to be up at dawn just like always, and double his work just so he doesn’t get whipped for getting far behind. It would’ve been better if she just left him to die.

He isn’t destined for anything. Not anymore.

In the morning, he doesn’t see the woman, but doesn’t think much of it. He grabs his pickax and lets the guards chain him to the others like usual and they make the wooden walk from their shaft to the actual mines.

As he’s going down the slippery entrance due to rain, he stops when he looks up.

A cart with the dead body of a woman in it passes the group of slaves. Pulled by two others, they walk in the direction of the mass graves they keep at the back of the camp.

The head hangs out of the cart-tail, the lifeless tongue is slowly dripping with blood, her throat slit open from ear to ear; the braid tumbles out from underneath the blanket and those sunken grey eyes . . .

It was the woman with long chestnut hair. Something inside him snaps, so loud he’s astonished no one heard it.

The overseer hollers, prepping the iron-tipped whip in his hand. The one slave behind him pushes him forward and down into the shaft.

As the cart passes out of sight, he can’t do anything but say a little prayer for woman and wishes her well.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

The silence of the royal library wraps around Park Jimin like a thick blanket as the prince curls up in his winged armchair, and his hyung sits at the table nearby, pouring over documents Jimin never bothered to learn. His legs draped over the arm, Jimin leans his head back against the embroidered, but soft back of the chair.

Yoongi-hyung’s pen flickers in the firelight as he scans through documents and signs things, and scribbles notes. Giving a little sigh through his nose, Jimin flips the page of the book in his lap.

Today is the first day he’s been allowed to remove his bandages since the attempted assassination, and since he told his hyung about the alleged Ilk that had attacked him. He still hasn’t bothered to ask his hyung why the name had him so worried, even afraid. Possibly because a part of him still doesn’t _want_ to know.

A brutal scar has been left on the front of his shoulder from the arrow wound, but he’s since regained full mobility of his arm and even attempted to lift a heavy stack of books to check his strength.

He hears Yooongi-hyung sigh in annoyance and slam a book shut, near startling the prince. The scratching of his pen stops and he runs his fingers through his hair. Jimin tentatively closes his book and sits upright in the chair. “Finished, hyung?”

“No,” he grumbles, drumming his fingers on the table.

Jimin sets the book aside and slowly rises from the chair to stretch. Yoongi-hyung often snaps when he’s aggravated with something he can’t explain. Jimin approaches the chair carefully; right now hyung is no different than approaching a lion. He sets his hands on his hyung’s shoulders. “Why don’t we take a break for some food and water? I’m parched.”

“You can leave, I’ll stay. You can bring me something if you’re feeling so generous.” Yoongi-hyung says with a grin. Well, at least he’s not ragingly pissed, and that’s enough for Jimin to flick his hyung in the side of the head.

“I’d feel much better if you came with me. Let’s get some of the fresh, humid summer air into our lungs.” Jimin says, swaying back and forth while still holding his hyung’s shoulders.

“I can’t, Jimin, really. I need to at least get _something_ palpable before I dismiss it.”

“It can’t be something that’s _interesting_ , otherwise you wouldn’t have dozed off ten minutes ago.”

Yoongi-hyung looks over his shoulder, his hair whipping. “I did not!”

“I heard you snoring.” Jimin laughs.

“You’re a liar, Park Jimin.” Yoongi-hyung throws his pen at him and plops his elbow on the couch. “I only closed my eyes for a minute.”

Jimin shakes his head and sits in the chair next to Yoongi-hyung. After a moment of silence, Yoongi-hyung speaks.

“Did I really snore?”

Jimin keeps his face utterly serious as he says, “Like a bear.”

His hyung thumps his fist on the tabletop. Jimin laughs again, slapping his thigh as his hyung grins. Jimin looks at the title of the book he’d slapped shut, then at some of the papers. He bites back a chirp of surprise when he finds a few small runes sketched between his notes.

“Remind me what you’re reading.”

“Nothing,” Yoongi-hyung says again, shielding the notes with his arms. But Jimin narrows his eyes further, and Yoongi-hyung sighs. “It’s just – just has to do with the assassin. I’m running a background check.”

“About the Ilk.” His captain looks to him, eyes hardened. “Who are they? I want to know.”

“They’re dangerous. That’s all you need to know.”

Jimin doesn’t hesitate to shove his hyung. “You know what I mean.”

“Jimin –!”

“If my life is at stake because of them, I think it’s beneficial to know what I can. Is that not true?”

“That is if they’re even behind the attack, or if that putrid prick is just hollow in the head.” Yoongi-hyung grumbles.

“Still. Tell me.”

His hyung looks to the ceiling, pouting. He then closes his eyes. “They are – were – servants to Yeomna, the King of the Underworld, and God of Darkness. They were people whom had become tainted with the king’s darkness; sinners who couldn’t gain redemption, the lost, the forgotten, and the damned. The priests and priestesses who worshipped him would sacrifice such people to the god, and their bodies would become hosts for his dark demons. They were a well-known group back in the day, but soon they all just, dwindled, one by one until it was no more than an ancient religion from a forgotten time. If they are still around, and if they’re targeting you or your family, it can be very dangerous.”

“How?” Jimin asks, uncaring of his shaking voice.

“Because once the demons _infest_ the body, their power comes with them. They have a dark and dangerous power, breaching the limits of magic itself. I’m just hoping that the assassin was just lying. That’s what all this research is for.” He looks to Jimin. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“No, no. I’m just, intrigued.”

Yoongi-hyung chuckles. “You are quite the interesting man, Jimin. Soft in the head, but interesting.” Jimin smacks his hyung’s shoulder. “I wonder what some criminals know about the remnants of the Ilk.”

Jimin taps the back of his chair. “Well . . .”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“Yes I do, and the answer is no.”

“What was I going to say?”

“You want me to seek out the help of the Huntsmen in an attempt to root out the guild.”

Jimin blinks, astonished. “That is quite a scary talent, hyung.”

“You’re nothing if not predictable.” Yoongi-hyung replies, and for some reason, the comment makes Jimin bristle.

“You can’t deny that Kim Namjoon has eyes all over this city; if anyone has information, he might.”

Yoongi-hyung smacks the tabletop in annoyance. “How do you know he will even be honest to me when delivering such information? Or that he won’t ask for some kind of price in exchange? Not to mention that you’re bringing the King of Criminals into your father’s own castle.”

“Kim Namjoon has information on everyone in the city; if wanted to usurp my father’s throne, he would have long ago. He doesn’t desire that kind of power, nor does he seem to care for it. I can’t deny that he might ask for a hefty price in exchange for his services, but it’s better than to lose nights of sleep on something that you can’t even be sure of.”

“I refuse to bring the Criminal King into the king’s castle.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.” Jimin persist, even as his hyung rises from his seat. He wants to be done with this conversation. “I’ll bring the idea up, and I’ll tell him how much trouble his case is causing you.”

“No, you will not! I don’t want him to think that I can’t handle a case like this. I’m perfectly capable of figuring it out on my own.”

“I never said that you weren’t, but –”

“Jimin, call it another odd intuition, but I get the feeling that you want them here for more than just to help me. I think you just want something pleasant to look at while you’re stuck in council rooms or sitting on your ass at parties.”

Jimin takes the verbal slap, brushing it off as he sets his hands on his hips. “Okay, that was a low blow. But are you really so stubborn, or stuck in your pride that you can’t ask him for help? They’re not even criminals. They _hunt down_ the criminals.”

“No. They’re vigilantes who take the law into their own hands.”

“Will you not just think about it?” Jimin says, as he goes to retrieves his book from the armchair. “Maybe while they’re helping you, some of his men can help act as guards.”

“Are my men not capable of protecting you?” Yoongi-hyung asks as he gathers his papers. He looks to Jimin, and the prince’s lack of response says enough.

Jimin’s chest hurts when he beholds the hurt that flickers in the captain’s face. Not to say he doesn’t trust nor believe in the castle guards, but considering an assassin has already gotten past them . . .

“I understand.” His hyung says, Jimin’s heart cracking at the hurt. “But, I would be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Honestly?”

“Yes, but it was during the late night after downing an entire bottle of brandy.” His hyung snaps, back to his familiar jaunty sarcasm. Jimin laughs even as Yoongi-hyung thwacks a book shut, pushing to towards the center of the table. “I clearly wasn’t thinking straight.”

Jimin only pouts his lips as they leave the library. Yoongi-hyung leaves him at the grand staircase, where he turns left and Jimin turns right to head to his spacious suite.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

The sun’s incessant heat makes the sweat flow down his spine feel like a mountain stream. He can feel the heat tingling the top of his head and warming the soles of his feet from the courtyard cobblestones. As he weaves between the two trainers, his swords acting as steel extension of his arms, Jungkook counts his breaths and flows with the dance of swordplay. 

Dancing around the chalk-drawn circle, he catches a few acolytes staring in awe, bearing buckets of water. The courtyards are sprinkled with Huntsmen training and teaching, grunts and the singing of swords echoing throughout.

Jungkook ducks and swings his sword in time to block the one of his trainers. In a blink, he kicks out the one’s feet and spins around in time to block another swing aimed as a deathblow. Even in his thinnest tunic, the black pants and boots make his feet feel like they’re bathing in lava. As Jungkook is about to knockout his second trainer, a young voice chirps his name from behind. Side-stepping out of the circle, he holds up one hand to cease the fighting.

He finds a young girl standing on the outer edge of the circle. She’s a pretty young thing, no older than seven, wearing a simple homespun dress made from a thin material to combat the heat. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a draping tail, her green eyes as bright as a gem. She sways as she holds her hands behind her back.

One of the trainers tosses Jungkook a towel once he sheathes the swords across his back. “Did you need something?” he asks between breaths.

“Actually, Sir Kim Namjoon needs something.” She sweetly chirps. “He’s asked to see you in his office.”

“Oh, why thank you very much young lady.” He smiles. He spares the girl a wink before jogging inside.

The sweet cold relief of the inside washes over his skin, and Jungkook can’t stop the sigh that breaches his lips as he walks down the hall.

The house is protected with wards that help to regulate the temperature during the changing of the seasons. Wards that are never supposed to wear off unless smudged; courtesy of a powerful, and knowledgeable mage whom his hyung hired. Each of the runes are etched into every door way of the manor, strategically hidden between ornate etchings of vines and flowers.

Since it’s clear he doesn’t have time to freshen up, he does his best to make himself look decent as he wipes the towel over his face. He can feel the cool hitting his flushed cheeks, tickling the back of his neck.

He navigates through the parlor, then to the grand foyer before heading up the stairs to the third floor. His hyung’s study is at the end of the hall, always guarded by one Huntsman whenever he’s inside. The one on duty now nods to Jungkook.

Jungkook tries not to snarl. He’s the Second in Command to his hyung, the least anyone could do is show their respect for his rank. But because Jungkook is the youngest in the Keep, most of the other Huntsmen think they have age over rank. It always irks Jungkook, but his hyung always insists that they know of Jungkook’s position and know better then to doubt or undermine him and his opinion. In fact, he’s one of the few Huntsmen who can question Namjoon-hyung’s decisions.

Stepping inside, the Huntsman closes the door behind him. He finds his hyung siting at the desk, scribbling along a piece of paper. He doesn’t look up as Jungkook approaches and sits in the chair. To his left he sees a stack of files and papers, ones he’s most likely complete.

Dressed in a jeogori of fine purple, the gold embroidery traces along the sleeves in delicate vines. His hair is looser then usual, the only indication of his casual demeanor. The turquoise pants cuff at his ankles before his simple black slippers.

Jungkook doesn’t bother speaking as his hyung still scribbles. He sits patiently in the seat, occupying himself by browsing his eyes around the study. He knows that insisting to Namjoon-hyung won’t get him anywhere. He could stomp and scream at the top of his lungs, but his hyung won’t talk until _he_ is ready.

The study has large three-paneled windows on the far-right wall, flanked by royal blue velvet curtains. At the back of the room sits Namjoon-hyung’s desk, and behind it sits glass cabinets containing knock-knacks, some books, some scrolls, and decoration pieces until they touch corners with the left wall. From there, the entire wall is one long bookshelf that’s only interrupted by a small alcove holding the vacant fireplace.

The scribbling stops and Jungkook looks back to see Namjoon-hyung place the paper into a folder and set it inside a small cubbyhole. Jungkook leans forward as his hyung sighs and leans back in his chair.

“It would seem we have been requested.” His hyung’s first words to him. Jungkook furrows his brows in confusion. “I’ve just received a letter . . . from the Crown Prince.”

Jungkook springs up from his chair to lean over the desk. His hyung holds up the only remaining paper on his desk. Jungkook takes from it and his eyes quickly flick down the length of the page. There in practiced and perfect lettering, he sees the prince’s request. His writing shows his struggle between being civil, and downright begging.

_Esteemed Kim Namjoon,_

_I write to you asking for your help. There has been an assassination attempt on my life, and I would request you aiding my Captain of the Guard to find out who._

_They call themselves, the Ilk, an ancient group of occultists who were to have disappeared through time. My captain hasn’t told me much for me safety, but he seems extremely concerned, and is wasting away nights in an attempt to figure out their location, and their identities. You have eyes are all over this city, watching and relaying everything back to you._

_You have already saved my life once, and I am hoping you will do it again._

_For a hefty price that I will pay in full. _

_The details will be shared at the castle should you agree. If not, then you may take your leave._

_Yours Truly,_

_Crown Prince of Busan, Park Jimin_

“Demanding, yet still civil.” Jungkook admits, crediting the Crown Prince for remembering who exactly it is he’s writing to. Who he is asking this favor of.

He’d heard of the assassination attempt as soon as it happened. And of all the people he can imagine, the Crown Prince _himself_ was the one who ended up killing the assassin. Gods only know what the prince looks like now. Jungkook shakes his head to clear his head of the prince’s beauty. He sets the letter back on the table.

“What are you thinking?”

Namjoon-hyung leans back in his upholstered chair, crossing one ankle to the knee. “I’m thinking we should answer his request.”

“What?! Are you serious?” Jungkook leans forward to place his palms on the desk. “Hyung, this could be a trap.”

“I don’t think so.” His hyung simply replies. “I’ll admit I don’t trust the king, but I do trust the Crown Prince.”

“You only met him in person a couple of weeks ago.”

“And he was out of the castle, without his father’s consent, only escorted by a single guard.”

“The _Captain_ of the Guard.” Jungkook leans back and falls into the armchair. “How does that make him trustworthy?”

Namjoon-hyung chuckles. “I thought it taught you to be more observant, Jungkook.”

Jungkook stiffens in his chair ever so slightly.

“Apart from the fact that the boy’s fear and appreciation was genuine, if his father had given him permission to leave the castle, he would have at the very least, six to seven guards escorting the Crown Prince. As compromise. Only someone who is trying to sneak out would only take one guard. A trusted friend, no doubt. And an assassination attempt on anyone’s life is frightening, and humbling.”

Jungkook leans forward. “The only word we have from him is in that letter. And that can be easily faked. His father could’ve been hovering his shoulder and dictating everything he wrote.”

Namjoon-hyung swivels in his chair for a few seconds. “For him to do that, Prince Jimin would have to explain what he was doing outside of the castle. I think you and I both know that even from that one visit, that the Crown Prince is different from his father.”

Jungkook leans back. “Yeah, he’s actually attractive.” After a few heartbeats of biting his lip, he says, “I know I can’t change your mind on this hyung, but are you sure that this is a good idea? Even if he hasn’t actively hunted for you, you know it would be beneficial for the king to have you captured.”

“Will you be accompanying me to the castle?”

“Of course I will. I’m your Second in Command here.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about.” Namjoon-hyung springs up from his chair, snatching the letter from the prince. Jungkook attempts to interrupt, but his hyung pulls on a string connecting to one of the servants’ bells. Within a moment, there’s a knock on the study doors.

Namjoon-hyung opens it to reveal another servant – this man is dressed in a finer jacket, his breathing slight, as if he ran all the way here. His hyung hands the man the prince’s letter. “Place this on my desk in my chambers, and please bring some ink and fine paper.”

“Hyung, I’m still not too sure about this.” Jungkook says when his hyung motions to leave the study.

Once they’re outside, the Huntsmen on duty spares a nod to his hyung before separating and gliding down an adjacent hallway.

“Do you have some other form of plan you’re not telling me?”

“I have been meaning to see the inside of the castle lately, but they don’t exactly offer tours. This is a perfect opportunity for that; one I won’t want to pass up.”

“Hyung, please,” Jungkook says, grabbing Namjoon-hyung’s wrist to stop him. “I’m worried.”

“I’m not. You’ll be there is things go to shit. Besides, it’s not like I’m incapable of getting myself out of certain situations.”

“I never said you weren’t, but it’s just hard to believe that you’re so, fine with this. What makes you so sure?”

Namjoon-hyung’s face softens for a moment, his chin angles down ever-so-slightly before he turns to the window, gazing out at the lights of the city. Slowly they blink to life as the sun is beginning to set over the horizon. His hyung sighs. “Prince Jimin is different from his father. He’s not a man of sadistic pleasures and brutal cruelty. How someone could retain such traits when being raised by a man like that, I find it astounding.” Jungkook stiffens when he watches his hyung’s features grow grim. “My Shadows have reported to me some, odd, activity happening in the castle walls, and it’s clear that the prince doesn’t know about it. And those who do, they’re doing a good job of keeping their mouths shut. But not watching their actions.”

Jungkook takes a step back and balks. Namjoon-hyung has been sending spies out to watch the king. To monitor, and without anyone knowing. Jungkook tries not to let the string show; what his hyung does is none of his business, even as Second. “What kind of things going on?”

“What started as eerie feelings is being accompanied by strange lights glowing within the castle windows. Lights that have no reason to be happening. And if the prince’s lift is at risk, then this is our chance to gain access to the castle and see if my Shadows’ observations are true.”

“But what makes you so, eager to investigate the king. I thought our job was to deal with criminals and low-lives and corrupt politicians.”

“And this king is corrupt, in one way or another.”

Jungkook straightens. “The mines.” He whispers. His heart sinks when his hyung just lowers his head.

Shortly before the assassination attempt, there had been whispers about the king sending out his soldiers to the slave mines south of the Busan’s borders. A young woman had recently attacked her overseer, brutally murdering him and another before they detained her. She spoke of rebelling against the king, threatening to murder him and all who share his blood. To make him pay for what he did to her family. She had come from Jeju; a small island south of the continent that had just been conquered by the king’s army.

Instead of just leaving it to her death, the king ordered that his soldiers butcher all slaves who hailed from Jeju.

Including the children.

Rumors soon followed of wondering how the king was even able to get to the shores of Jeju when he had no standing armada. People whispered of silver-armored soldiers allying with the king’s men, sharing ships with a sail that had no banner except for Geyongsan.

The king has been looking to expand the kingdom, but on such bloody means . . .

“There is something _wrong_ with him, Jungkook.” Namjoon-hyung says, still staring. “The king is up to something and he’s exterminating anything or anyone that notices.”

Accepting his hyung’s answer, Jungkook says, “When do we leave?”

“I’m writing the response letter tonight. We shall proceed to visit the next morning.”

Jungkook nods and after bowing to his hyung, he turns and leaves to ready his weapons. He spares a look over his shoulder to Namjoon-hyung. Still staring out the window, his hands held behind his back.

Jungkook manages to catch a servant and requests to have his leathers cleaned and polished. Returning to his room, he tosses the dirty clothes into the wicker basket. He goes to the bathing room, the crystal sconces casting the white tiles silver as he turns the brass knob. Steam billows around the room as the water gathers into the tub.

Within seconds of stepping inside the filled tub, he sighs at the release of his tense muscles. He buries himself up to his neck in suds and sweet-smelling oils.

Staring at the small tiered chandelier, he takes slow, deep breaths. His hyung has been scheming. He’s never tried to investigate the king before – and though the king’s recent behavior has been questionable – he never thought he’d see the day where his hyung deemed it suspicious enough to make it his business. Despite the people they sometimes hunt, his hyung has never involved himself much in political affairs. Let alone to put himself and his reputation on the line all for a doe-eyed prince looking for adventure.

Jungkook noted all the staring, all the quivers when Prince Jimin was cleaning his wound. A wound that has healed away completely since that night. Picking at the callus around his palm, Jungkook tries to mentally prepare himself for tomorrow, at what can go wrong, what will be said.

All the while, he tries to quiet the flickering pain of his hyung keeping secrets.

* * *

Jimin has seen his father mad before, but not to this point. Though it intimidated him, he still has no regrets. The nervousness and clammy palms he had before are now gone.

Replaced by a growing fire of rebellion as he watches his father pace back and forth in front of the grand fireplace of the council room. Especially after he had heard the news of what his father did to those families of slaves at the mines.

Five-hundred men, women, and children. Butchered.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you have done?!” His father roars, and Jimin lifts his chin, squaring his shoulders.

“I went and got some help.” He answers in a steady voice.

“ _You invited a hooligan to_ my _castle_!”

Jimin’s nerves got the better of him as he wrote the letter. So much so he was surprised to find the letters clean and smooth. Yoongi-hyung said he’d think about it, but Jimin knew he would use that as means of hoping Jimin would drop the subject. And if he didn’t actually get to it – like Jimin knew he wouldn’t – he would simply say that he is too busy to have it cross his mind.

So, he took matters into his own hands and sent the letter out yesterday while the courier was about to make his rounds to the local marketplace. Jimin placed an extra silver into the courier’s palm so make sure that the return letter makes it back to him only.

Telling Yoongi-hyung about it was the easy part, despite the harsh yelling and verbal insults his hyung had spewed like venom. But after seeing the purple under his hyung’s eyes worsen, Jimin forced himself to not care, to see how much better this is going to be, despite the controversial opinions of the King of the Huntsmen.

Hid hyung is now down at the barracks, checking his men, their positions and their weapon quality for the third time today. Though Jimin would’ve loved to have him standing at the door, watching and waiting, Jimin knew this was something he needed to do alone.

“Yoongi-hyung was stressing over this attack so much, I wanted to help him.”

“Let the man do his god-damn job!”

Jimin takes a bold step forward. “He was losing nights of sleep! His sources keep leading to dead ends. Kim Namjoon’s connections let him go places the guards can’t. This is in no means to underestimate or undermine him, but he keeps running in circles no matter how much he tries to deny it.”

“I can’t believe you would do something so reckless, so _stupid_ –”

“You want to talk about stupid?! What about those families you _slaughtered_ in the slave mines!”

“It was necessary. They were going to live a pathetic existence anyway. I did them all a much more charitable favor.”

Jimin takes another couple of steps forward. Roiling anger moving his feet. “There were children in those mines!”

“Like they would’ve wanted to live anyway with what their pathetic parents brought upon on them.”

“You’re going to explode over my decision, when you’re the one who is acting like a hungry barbarian –!”

Jimin’s steps were heavy, wrought with purpose as he stomped towards his father. But it was brief.

He did not see his father’s hand snap out until after it cracked across his face. Jimin stays there for a heartbeat, letting the strobing stars dissipate from his vision before blinking open his eyes and slowly turning his head. His father stands there, his face red, and near snarling. Jimin’s cheekbone and jawline sting the most from where his father’s rings scraped across his skin.

“Remember that _I_ am the king.”

“And a pathetic one at that.” Jimin growls, his voice guttural.

A backhand slap across the same cheek. Jimin controls his breathing before looking at his father, uncaring of the tears lining his eyes. “You watch your tongue, boy. Before I rip it out.”

Jimin only stands there, controlling his breathing as his cheek begins to ache.

“Get out.” His father orders.

Jimin takes his time to leave, primarily to only irk his father even more. He waits until his father has rounded the long, oval table before taking his first steps towards the doors. He keeps eye contact with his father the entire trek.

Then takes the extra effort to slam the doors shut hard enough to rattle the chandeliers above.

Still, he can smile in victory as he distracted his father enough that he never gave the order for Jimin to withdraw the offer to Kim Namjoon. Not that Jimin would’ve listened anyway.

With that, he smiles at the sting in his cheek, despite the tears that flow from his eyes.


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during the WINGS Era for BTS. As the story progresses, it will catch up (hopefully) to the current era and looks and styles.

He knew something was happening the minute the overseers forced everyone to have second helpings of food. Then they stopped the whippings for a week.

On the first day of that week, healers came to the mines. So out of place in their clean, white dresses, a red cross stitched on the sleeves. They proceeded to line up all of the slaves for inspection: checking for fevers, infections, blisters, weight, and hygiene.

He didn’t see what they wrote down, not that he cared.

After the healers left, the overseers ordered everyone to the tubs for bathing. The baths here were short, and cold. While the guards received tubs of fire-warmed water, they had to resort to bathing in puddles – of both water and mud – if they were lucky enough to get rain in this dry season.

But this time, the tubs were used, and each bath was warm, but still brief. Each person only getting five minutes, but they were given soap, and even towels.

The second day, each salve received new clothes. Clean and fresh and pressed as if it had just come from the laundresses. They also shortened the hours of labor, and gave more breaks. Even allowing water.

On the third day is when they received second servings of food. Half of the salves were jubilant, others were cautious. As was he; they were being prepared for something, like sheep to a slaughter.

On the final day of the week, the overseers woke them up earlier than usual.

The sleeping cabins were cramped, with limited double beds. Both made completely out of wood, it does little to shield the cold, or move the heat. It was decided that the women and children would take the beds, the men would sleep on the floor. Some sleep next to the wives or lovers. The overseers didn’t care, even throwing some hay and old fur pelts on the floors.

They come storming in shouting orders and whips in hand. The slave boy slowly rose from his sleep, the lashings on his back still aching; throbbing as though someone is constantly clenching their bloodied fingers inside his muscles. The healers treated what they could, needing to spare their magic for the other hundreds of thousands here. They ended up giving him some salve for his back. A slower process, but it also protected from infection; and the overseers actually heckled him about making sure he was using it.

The overseers order everyone into a single-file line, clamping shackles around their wrists and ankles, as if nothing had changed.

With a crack of the whip, they’re all waddling along, carefully shuffling their feet in front of the other as not to trip. If a person were to fall, they’re usually screamed at and beaten until they rise. _If_ they rise.

Pacing his feet with the others, he keeps his hands in front of him, close to his hips. The chain swings and hits against his hipbone. Even with the week of extra servings, it’s done nothing to help him gain weight. Instead, he vomited up the second helping after returning to his moldy hay pile.

They step down at the doorway and he lifts his head to see the sky a mixture of colors at early morning twilight. They always move the salves at dawn and dusk, letting them grow used to the sun’s harsh light throughout the day. If they were to step outside at noon, they would be blinded.

He nearly pauses when he finds rows upon rows of large schooner wagons. Each is set with a couple of horses or even bulls. 

He swallows thickly, his insides turning to liquid.

They’re being transported somewhere. To be traded.

He tries not to let the betrayal sting, inhaling deeply, focusing on filling his lungs with air. They needed the salves to look their best, or at least presentable. Who would want a starved, dirtied slave? One that looks unable to work, for that matter.

What unnerves him more is the fact that in comparison, there aren’t enough wagons to transport the _entire_ population of the camp.

A whip cracks across the yard, jerking his head. There he finds his answer, as another batch of slaves are being escorted to their usual shaft to work, pickaxes in hand, chains clinking. Each of them having the hollow, raging face he’s seen so many times before. Eyes on the ground or the sky – never on what is before them.

Transports weren’t that often here, given this camp is more for prisoners of war. A mix of conquered nations bound together. But they do still happen. And most look upon it as a blessing, as it is the one time that the overseers are supposed to take care of them. Some even beg and plead with the overseers to let them go, to let them be transported out of this hellhole. But it only ends with cruel retribution.

Whipping his head back, the salve boy watches are the guards crudely usher the slaves into the wagons. The rising sun sends the shadows stretching across the yard. He attempts to peer between the break in the wagons, finding some men carrying skins full of what has to be fresh water.

Looking around him, he finds some of the salves fighting back laughs and smiles. To them, this is a miracle.

But the gods know where exactly they’re going. It could be to a noble’s house, to a green farmland, a distant kingdom where they don’t believe in slavery and this is all just some rouse of rescue . . . or it could be to another camp, where the conditions are worse, and death will be the blessing.

The salve boy doesn’t know what to feel. But he doesn’t allow himself the building excitement as the others. They don’t know where they’re going. He refuses to hope.

Keeping his pacing, he follows the others; each section breaking off upon the guards’ orders to file into a wagon, until they reach the end of the line, where three prison wagons sit. Even with their doors open, the inside seeps with an impenetrable darkness. He swallows back a scream, but his back is already staring to sweat.

He remembers the days he spent in those wagons. The pain, the darkness, the vomit, the blood . . .

Thankfully, he is stopped by an overseer and guided towards one of the schooners. His section follows behind him, their heads looking all around in disbelief.

Inside the wagon, wooden benches have been built into the sides. Not enough to seat everyone, of course. So the slave boy claims his seat at the innermost corner of the bench, the others following behind him. No one dares to complain about sitting on the floor.

Once everyone of his section is inside, a couple of overseers lazily toss seven blankets and three old fur cloaks inside. Unlike the chaos they expected – maybe even hoped for – the slaves civilly take one and pass it to the other. There are no children in this schooner, so the five women get the cloaks and two blankets. Then the rest is just passed around.

Getting himself adjusted in his corner seat, he tucks his hands under his arms. Another silver lining would be that they are in the heart of summer. If this was to be done during the winter, then perhaps the fight for the cloaks and blankets would ensue.

Frigid nights in the cabins had many curling into themselves, desperate to conserve any kernel of warmth they could, wondering whether you’d make it in the morning, or if the cold would claim you before dawn.

The salve boy shivers at the memory of waking up next to a corpse. Or how he witnessed others stealing the blanket and clothes and extra support for their own makeshift bed.

But this is summer, the blankets and cloaks needed for comfort. So they’re going to be in here for some time. And judging from the amount of skins and crates he saw being loaded onto the cargo wagons, they’re heading to some place where they have to keep themselves looking presentable.

The idea is laughable. He’s been here for three years and the dirt and grime feel like a second skin. He doubts even the royal servants could scrape it off.

He adjusts the cuffs on his wrists, biting his lip to suppress a grunt of pain as they scrape against the raw skin of his wrists. The whites of previous scars poke through the thin smearing of blood. He lightly dabs the hem of his tunic against his skin to keep it somewhat clean.

Heavy boots enter the wagon, and an overseer does one final inspection of the slaves before they depart. When he reaches the salve boy, he holds out his hands hesitantly. The overseer takes them and immediately pulls a round tin from his pocket. He doesn’t hesitate to wipe whatever ointment is in it, the salve boy hissing at the initial pain, but sighs at the cooling sensation left behind. The man leaves without another word.

No one has bothered to ask where they’re going, not like the guards would give a clear answer, anyway. Curling into himself, projecting the image of not to be disturbed, he leans his head against the canvas and closes his eyes.

If they’re going to be here for some time, he might as well catch up on his sleep.

But he still hears the cracks of the whip in his ears.

* * *

The afternoon sun making him sweat buckets beneath his clothing, Jung Hoseok adjusts himself on the thick branch perched high above the forest floor. Adjusting the quiver across his back, he holds his bow close to his chest. He leans his shoulder against the thick trunk of the tree. His vantage point in the crook of the tree branch has turned useless. The gusting wind blows thick flurries of pine needles and leaves to sweep away his tracks, but buried along with them any signs of potential quarry.

He’s been in the forest for almost an hour now, and he hasn’t done much other than snare a couple rabbits. Casting a glance to the bodies he left strapped against the trunk, he sighs when he finds them still intact. He didn’t want to leave them in the snares for a wolf or a bear, but he also needs to get them back in time before they become blanketed by flies. He tied them to the tree once he positioned himself, the only solution he could think of that allowed constant surveillance.

He was hoping to bring back some form of bigger game, even going to his favorite pond where he knew many geese and ducks sit. But the pond was abandoned safe for a few frogs. Frogs that he declined.

The disappointment and criticism would be more from himself than anyone else.

That was all he could do, all he’d been _able_ to do for years: focus on surviving the week, the day, the hour ahead.

Hoseok’s mother had passed during childbirth, and his father wasn’t much of a model, either. Always getting drunk and beating on him, bringing home multiple women from the Red-Light District.

By the time Hoseok was eight, his father had already broken every bone in his body.

He shakes off the feeling of his neck and thigh throbbing; a phantom touch of where his father left heavy bruising.

A crack of a twig has Hoseok jerking his head to the right, only to find a thin squirrel foraging. Not enough meat to really make a good catch. And given it’s the only thing he’s seen in the past hour, this spot has lost its luster.

And now, with the wind, he’d be lucky to spot anything — especially from his position up in the tree, the wind now blowing his scent straight north. Stifling a groan as his stiff limbs protest at the movement, he unstrings his bow before easing off the tree.

The soft bed of pine needles under his fraying boots, he tries to be chipper. Good visibility, little noise — he may have a very fruitful hunt.

After a few minutes of careful searching, he crouches in a cluster of leaf-heavy brambles. Through the thorns, he has a half-decent view of a clearing and the small brook flowing through it. A few holes in the mud suggest it is frequently used. Hopefully something will come by. Hopefully.

He sighs through his nose, digging the tip of his bow into the ground, and leans his forehead against the crude curve of wood.

His father didn’t bring home much food, or income. He was a barely-functioning alcoholic, bringing home just enough coin to spend another long night at the local tavern. Some of the bartenders took pity on Hoseok, giving him some of their tips and bringing his father home after last call.

But it was the local butcher and hunter of the Market Square, Ro Sang-Min, who gave Hoseok a home. Were it not for Ro, Hoseok believes he would be living on the streets. Hell, if he was lucky, he would’ve ended up with the courtesans, and not even the high-ranking ones. He shivers at the thought.

It first started with Ro noticing the bruising on Hoseok’s body, then insisting him to stay for a few nights to recover. Soon Hoseok was over three times a week, teaching him how to hunt, taking him on a Hunting Parties; where he got to put his instructions to the test.

The party had once been gone for three days, and it was the best that he had ever eaten and slept. Fresh meat and water, warm tents and fires, and an endless expanse of velvet midnight, the stars glittering like diamonds. His father didn’t come looking for him, but Hoseok had lost any hope of his father noticing his absence a long time before that.

He eases into a more comfortable position and calms his breathing, straining to listen to the forest over the wind.

At first Hoseok thought it was a blessing that his father didn’t care about where he was. If gave him unlimited freedom to do what he wanted, and with Ro, he was able to eat and drink as much as he wanted, without having to consider leaving enough for another mouth.

However, it was all short-lived when he _and_ his father discovered one winter Hoseok’s ability to shape-shift.

It began with the dreams of being an animal, then the nightmares of being _chased_ by an animal.

One dream still haunts him to this day: a dream where he is rushing through and endless expanse of jungle, the heat and rain clinging to his fur. The sounds of chaos behind him, the taste of blood on his tongue . . .

It gripped his nerves into the early morning, and when his father had startled him, Hoseok ended up turning into a hissing tabby cat by accident. He didn’t realize what had happened only that his father had grown, and so had the world. His father was shocked and horrified, grabbing a broom and attempting to swat at Hoseok until he was finally able to turn back into himself.

Apparently, the gift had come from his mother, and she never told either of them about it. Nor did it ever seem to occur to her that it could be generic. As is most magic.

His father roared in outrage and kicked Hoseok out of the house. Hoseok hid around the alleys when his father was home, sneaking up the drainpipe and into his bedroom to catch up on some sleep. But he overslept and his father caught him and beat him again. This time he threw Hoseok out of the house and into the street.

He changed the locks that day.

Hoseok sat on the doorstep for four days until Ro had found him. Hoseok only remembers a blanket being draped over him, then strong arms lifting and carrying him down the sidewalk. When he awoke in Ro’s house, the old man only asked what happened. And so Hoseok told him.

He had nothing to lose, and magic wasn’t forbidden in the kingdom. But there are those who see it as a front to the Gods and Goddesses.

Ro never profited from Hoseok’s gifts, not in the way he expected. Ro mentioned how Hoseok could use it to his advantage while hunting. And though Hoseok does use it to bring meat back to the butcher shop, Ro never treated him like a servant or like a circus act. He didn’t judge or bat an eyelash once the shifter was done explaining himself. He only promised to help him master it as best as he could.

Now at the age of twenty-one, he’s mastered his abilities to shift, to hunt, and to bargain.

The howling wind calmed into a soft sighing. The pine needles and leaves relax, gathering along every nook and bump of the trees. Hoseok lifts his head and smiles at the rays of sunlight that break through the thick canopy of trees like golden darts.

Bushes rustle across the clearing.

Drawing his bow is a matter of instinct. He peers through the thorns, and his breath catches.

Less than thirty paces away stands a small doe, growing fat and plump from the summer harvest, and naive enough to still wander by the stream in the clearing.

A deer like that could feed him and Ro for a week or more. And if they didn’t take it, it will sell well at the shop.

Ro isn’t poor by any means, a well-mannered and well-developed shop keeper of the middle class. In fact, his demand of meats is very high – which only adds more work. Work that is small compared to what he’s done for Hoseok, and how he will never complain to the old man.

Quiet as the wind hissing through the leaves, he takes aim.

She continues nibbling on the grass, chewing slowly, utterly unaware that her death waited yards away.

He could dry half the meat for the shop, and they could immediately eat the rest—stews, pies . . . Her skin can be sold, or perhaps turned into clothing for one of them. Poor they might not be, but Ro is always _painfully_ resourceful.

Hoseok’s fingers tremble. He takes a steadying breath, double-checking his aim.

But there is a pair of golden eyes shining from the brush adjacent to his.

The forest goes silent. Even the wind pauses.

Hoseok prays to the gods. All of them.

Concealed in the thicket, the wolf inches closer, its gaze set on the oblivious doe.

He is enormous — the size of a pony — and though Hoseok had been warned about their presence, his mouth turns bone-dry.

But worse than his size was his unnatural stealth: even as he inches closer in the brush, he remains unheard, unspotted by the doe. No animal that massive can be so quiet.

Any normal person would run. But Hoseok is not normal. Instead, he grins at the wolf: another profit to be claimed. The size and fur would catch the eye of any noble, perhaps even one of the royals looking for a new winter coat for the season. Putting an arrow through his eye would be no burden.

If he ran out of arrows, he had claws himself he could use. He’d bene on enough Hunting Parties with Ro to learn and memorize the size of certain animals and their behavior.

The wolf creeps closer, and a twig snaps beneath one of his paws — each bigger than his hand. The doe goes rigid. She glances to either side, ears straining toward the blue sky. With the wolf’s downwind position, she can’t see or smell him.

His head lowers, and his massive silver body — so perfectly blended into the bushes and shadows — sinks onto its haunches. The doe is still staring in the wrong direction.

Hoseok glances from the doe to the wolf and back again. At least he is alone — at least he’d been spared that much. But if the wolf scared the doe off, he is left with nothing but a starving, oversize wolf looking for the next-best meal. And if he killed her, destroying precious amounts of hide and fat . . .

Carefully, with practiced predatory smoothness, Hoseok nocks an arrow.

The wolf shoots from the brush in a flash of gray and white, his yellow fangs gleaming. He is even more gargantuan in the open, a marvel of muscle and speed and brute strength. The doe didn’t stand a chance.

Hoseok fires the arrow before he destroys much else of her.

The arrow found its mark in his side, and he barks in pain, releasing the doe’s neck as his blood sprayed on the ground.

Hoseok springs from his hiding spot, loading another arrow from muscle memory. The wolf whirls towards him, those yellow eyes wide, hackles raised. His low growl reverberates in the empty pit of Hoseok’s stomach.

His maw stained with blood, the arrow protruding so vulgarly from his side, the wolf readies to launch again. Hoseok fires the second arrow.

The wolf dodges, whipping fast as silver lightning and before Hoseok can react, its haw clamp around his ankle.

Hoseok can’t stop the scream that rips his throat as the wolf yanks him to the ground. His head bounces against a thick root, sending the world in and out of focus. His grip on his bow falters, and he’s too disoriented to try and look for it.

The wolf whips its head back and forth, looking to snap his ankle. Hoseok digs his nails into the dirt and holds himself as he brings up his other leg to kick into the wolf’s head.

The wolf releases him, whimpering for a second before it is replaced with a deep snarling. In an instant the wolf leaps atop him, Hoseok managing to bring his arms up to block the maw of sharp teeth biting attempting to bit at his face.

Kicking up dirt from his scrambling feet, Hoseok manages grab the wolf’s snout and deliver a blow to its face. His knuckles ache, but it’s a welcome pain. The wolf is stunned enough that Hoseok can reach his belt and bring up a dagger to stab into the wolf’s shoulders.

Whines and leaps back, but it still snarls. It’s golden eyes stark with feral rage.

As it tries to leap atop Hoseok again, he brings one arm up to block it while the other continues to stab the dagger into the wolf’s shoulder, his side, his stomach.

At this point he doesn’t care where he aims, only knowing that each stab – if deep enough – is lethal.

The wolf manages to bite his arm just as Hoseok delivers a deep stab to his side, just missing the wolf’s stomach.

The canine wrestles back one last time, and as it launches for the deathblow, Hoseok beings the bloodied dagger up – his hands already sticky with blood – and grunts as he drives the blade through the center of the wolf’s chest.

He collapses atop Hoseok, and Hoseok grinds his teeth to suppress a scream as he feels the warm blood soak into his abdomen.

Rolling over on his right, he scrambles up and away a few steps, breathing heavily.

The wolf’s legs are twitching as a low whine slices through the wind. Blood gushes from the wounds he’d given him, staining the forest floor crimson. He paws at the ground, his breathing already slowing.

Hoseok stares for another second, before he slowly approaches the wolf. It is barely able to lift its head, still able to snarl.

He kneels before the wolf, quickly removing the arrow in its side. Earning another whine and snarl, Hoseok presses his hands to the wound, the blood pouring like the running stream behind him.

“I’m sorry.” Hoseok mumbles. “I’m so sorry.”

He finds his lip quivering as much as his hands. Hoseok leans forward until his forehead is resting against the warm coat of charcoal and obsidian and ivory. Uncaring of the blood, he cries into the wolf’s side until it ceases rising and falling.

The tightness in his chest doesn’t ease as he continues to cry. It’s the one part of hunting he always hated, despite its obvious intention.

He does his best to hide it from Ro and the others, but out here in the quiet forest, all alone . . . nothing stops his tears. He doesn’t lighten the pressure on the wound, doesn’t lift his head for a couple minutes. He hated the killing; hated how it clenched his heart every time to hear the helpless squeals of the animals he killed.

It didn’t have to come to this, but he had always learned to set aside his feelings and think of the future.

Hoseok says a little prayer of thanks to the Goddess of the Wild, and to the wolf in promise that his body will be put to good use.

The prayer eases his chest a little, and his hands stop shaking enough that he can make quick work.

A rapid examination of the doe tells him he can carry only one animal — and even that will be a struggle. But a part of him insists it is a shame to leave the wolf.

Though it wasted precious materials and minutes — minutes during which any predator could smell the fresh blood — he ties the wolf’s legs together with his bowstring and cleans his arrows as best he can. Once that’s done, he slings the wolf across his back.

He sticks the bow in his quiver snuggly, and wrapping doe’s death-wound before he hoists her across his shoulders. It will be several miles back to town, and he doesn’t need a trail of blood leading every animal with fangs and claws straight to him.

Grunting against the weight, he grasps the legs of the deer and spares a final glance at blood-strewn forest floor. He could’ve just shifted into a wolf and fought him off, a mere show of dominance and claim the kill.

So, why didn’t he?

That hesitation was always there, every time he hunted, and he couldn’t explain it. At first, he only chalked it up as cold feet, or a queasiness brought on from first-timers. But it still never went away, which resulted in him always saying a prayer before harvesting the animals.

Hugging them closer to his body, ignoring his sweat mixing with the blood, Hoseok carries the wolf and the doe all the way through the woods back into town.

During that time, he never stopped praying for forgiveness.


End file.
